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By  Miss  Anna   Warner. 

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ROBERT  CARTER   AND   BROTHERS, 
NEW  YORK. 


NOBODY 


BY  THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD" 


"  Let  me  see  ;   What  think  you  of  falling  in  love  ? " 

As  You  Like  It 


NEW    YORK 
ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS 

530  BROADWAY 
J883 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,   1882, 
BY  ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS. 


St.  Johnland  Cambridge: 

Stereotype  Foundry,  Press  of 

Suffolk  Co.,  N.  Y.  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


NOTICE   TO   READER. 


The  following  is  again  a  true  story  of 
real  life.  For  character  and  colouring,  no 
doubt,  I  am  responsible  ;  but  the  facts  are 
facts. 

Martians  Rock, 
Aug.  9,  1 88 a. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  WHO    IS   SHE?          V           .            .            .       '''\'''  .          9 

II.  AT    BREAKFAST V  •'"   '        1 8 

III.  A    LUNCHEON    PARTY          .             .             .             .  27 

IV.  ANOTHER   LUNCHEON    PARTY             .            .  .            41 
V.  IN   COUNCIL  .......       56 

VI.  HAPPINESS             .             .             .             .             .  .             65 

VII.  THE   WORTH    OF   THINGS              .            .            .  .       8l 

VIII.  MRS.    ARM  AD  ALE            .         '  •            •            •        *  •'    '        93 

IX.  THE   FAMILY             .            .            .            •            •  .     IO7 

X.  LOIS'S    GARDEN   .             .             .            rf            •  .           HQ 

XI.  SUMMER   MOVEMENTS        .            .            •            .  •     J33 

XII.  APPLEDORE            .             .             •             .             .  .15! 

XIII.  A   SUMMER   HOTEL              .            .            .       '    •  .162 

XIV.  WATCHED           ,  .  .*  ; :       .             .            •            .  .           1 74 
XV.  TACTICS           A 196 

xvi.  MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION         »•        •  „      .  •       208 

XVII.  TOM'S    DECISION       .            .*            .            .            .  .221 

xviii.  MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN         ..*        .        .  .       233 

XIX.  NEWS  .  .  .  *  .  ''       ....     248 

XX.  SHAMPUASHUH    .            .            .            .            »  .          2$9 

xxi.  GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS     .        •        .        .  .276 

XXII.  LEARNING '298 

XXIII.  A    BREAKFAST   TABLE        .             .    .                      .  .     309 

XXIV.  THE    CARPENTER             .             .             .             .  .          321 
XXV.  ROAST.  PIG      .....             j  •     338 

(7) 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

XXVI.  SCRUPLES 

XXVII.  PEAS    AND    RADISHES   . 

XXVIII.  THE    LAGOON   OF  VENICE 

XXIX.  AN   OX    CART       . 

XXX.  POETRY 

XXXI.  LONG   CLAMS 

XXXII.  A   VISITER       . 

XXXIII.  THE   VALUE    OF   MONEY 

XXXIV.  UNDER   AN   UMBRELLA       . 
XXXV.  OPINIONS  . 

XXXVI.  TWO    SUNDAY   SCHOOLS       . 

XXXVII.  AN    OYSTER   SUPPER      . 

XXXVIII.  BREAKING    UP 

XXXIX.  LUXURY     . 

XL.  ATTENTIONS  . 

XLI.  CHESS 

XLII.  RULES 

XLIII.  ABOUT  WORK      . 

XLIV.  CHOOSING   A   WIFE  .  . 

XLV.  DUTY          .  .  . 

XLVI.  OFF   AND    ON  .  , 

XLVII.  PLANS 

XLVIII.  ANNOUNCEMENTS     .  . 

XLIX.  ON   THE   PASS     , 


352 
363 

378 

393 
405 
420 
434 
445 
457 
476 
488 
504 
519 
532 
546 
562 

573 
585 
599 
617 
629 
646 
660 
675 


NOBODY. 

CHAPTER    I. 
WHO    IS    SHE? 

"  ^POM,  who  was  that  girl  you  were  so  taken 

1      with  last  night  ?  " 

"  Wasn't  particularly  taken  last  night  with  any 
body." 

Which  practical  falsehood  the  gentleman  escaped 
from  by  a  mental  reservation,  saying  to  himself 
that  it  was  not  last  night  that  he  was  "  taken." 

"  I  mean  the  girl  you  had  so  much  to  do  with. 
Come,  Tom ! " 

"  I  hadn't  much  to  do  with  her.  I  had  to  be 
civil  to  somebody.  She  was  the  easiest." 

"  Who  is  she,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Lothrop." 

"  0  you  tedious  boy !  I  know  what  her  name  is, 
for  I  was  introduced  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Wishart  spoke 
so  I  could  not  help  but  understand  her;  but  I  mean 
something  else,  and  you  know  I  do.  Who  is  she  ? 
And  where  does  she  come  from  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Wishart ;  and  she  comes 
from  the  country  somewhere." 


10  NOBODY. 

" One  can  see  that" 

"  How  can  you  ?  "  the  brother  asked  rather  fiercely. 

"You  see  it  as  well  as  I  do,"  the  sister  returned 
coolly.  "  Her  dress  shews  it." 

"  I  didn't  notice  anything  about  her  dress." 

"  You  are  a  man." 

"  Well,  you  women  dress  for  the  men.  If  you 
only  knew  a  thing  or  two,  you  would  dress  dif 
ferently." 

"That  will  do!  You  would  not  take  me  any 
where,  if  I  dressed  like  Miss  Lothrop." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  young  man,  stop 
ping  short  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  floor; — 
"  she  can  afford  to  do  without  your  advantages ! " 

"  Mamma !  "  appealed  the  sister  now  to  a  third 
member  of  the  party, — "  do  you  hear  ?  Tom  has 
lost  his  head." 

The  lady  addressed  sat  busy  with  newspapers, 
at  a  table  a  little  withdrawn  from  the  fire ;  a  lady 
in  fresh  middle  age,  and  comely  to  look  at.  The 
daughter,  not  comely,  but  sensible-looking,  sat  in 
the  glow  of  the  fireshine,  doing  nothing.  Both 
were  extremely  well  dressed,  if  "well"  means  in  the 
fashion  and  in  rich  stuffs  and  with  no  sparing  of 
money  or  care.  The  elder  woman  looked. up  from 
her  studies  now  for  a  moment,  with  the  remark, 
that  she  did  not  care  about  Tom's  head,  if  he  would 
keep  his  heart. 

"  But  that  is  just  precisely  what  he  will  not  do, 
mamma.  Tom  can't  keep  anything,  his  heart  least 
of  all.  And  this  girl — mamma,  I  tell  you  he  is  in 


WHO  is  SHE?  11 

danger.  Tom,  how  many  times  have  you  been  to 
see  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  go  to  see  Tier;  1  go  to  see  Mrs.  Wishart." 

"  Oh ! — and  you  see  Miss  Lothrop  by  accident ! 
Well,  how  many  times,  Tom  V  Three — four — five — " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous!"  the  brother  struck  in. 
"  Of  course  a  fellow  goes  where  he  can  amuse  him 
self  and  have  the  best  time ;  and  Mrs.  Wishart  keeps 
a  pleasant  house." 

"  Especially  lately.  Well,  Tom,  take  care !  it  won't 
do.  I  warn  you." 

"  What  won't  do  ?  "—angrily. 

"  This  girl ;  not  for  our  family.  Not  for  you,  Tom. 
She  hasn't  anything, — and  she  isn't  anybody;  a,nd 
it  will  not  do  for  you  to  marry  in  that  way.  If 
your  fortune  was  ready  made  to  your  hand,  or  if 
you  were  established  in  your  profession  and  at  the 
top  of  it, — why,  perhaps  you  might  be  justified  in 
pleasing  yourself;  but  as  it  is,  dont,  Tom  !  Be  a 
good  boy,  and  dorit  I " 

"  My  dear,  he  will  not,"  said  the  elder  lady  here. 
"Tom  is  wiser  than  you  give  him  credit  for." 

"  I  don't  give  any  man  credit  for  being  wise 
mamma,  when  a  pretty  face  is  in  question.  And 
this  girl  has  a  pretty  face;  she  is  very  pretty. 
But  she  has  no  style;  she'  is  as  poor  as  a  mouse; 
she  knows  nothing  of  the  world;  and  to  crown  all, 
Tom,  she's  one  of  the  religious  sort. — Think  of  that ! 
One  of  the  real  religious  sort,  you  know.  Think 
how  that  would  fit." 

"What  sort  are  you?"  asked  her  brother. 


12  NOBODY. 

"Not  that  sort,  Tom,  and  you  aren't  either." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is?" 

"  Very  easy,"  said  the  girl  coolly.  "  She  told  me 
herself." 

"  She  told  you ! " 

"Yes." 

"How?" 

"  0  simply  enough.  I  was  confessing  that  Sun 
day  is  such  a  fearfully  long  day  to  me,  and  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  it;  and  she  looked  at 
me  as  if  I  were  a  poor  heathen — which  I  suppose 
she  thought  me — and  said,  'But  there  is  always 
the  Bible!'  Fancy !—' always  the  Bible.'  So  I 
knew  in  a  moment  where  to  place  her." 

"  I  don't  think  religion  hurts  a  woman,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  But  you  do  not  want  her  to  have  too  much  of 
it — "  the  mother  remarked,  without  looking  up 
from  her  paper. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  too  much, 
mother.  I'd  as  lief  she  found  Sunday  short  as  long. 
By  her  own  shewing,  Julia  has  the  worst  of  it." 

"  Mamma !  speak  to  him,"  urged  the  girl. 

"No  need,  my  dear,  I  think.     Tom  isn't  a  fool." 

"Any  man  is,  when  he  is  in  love,  mamma." 

Tom  came  and  stood*  by  the  mantelpiece,  con 
fronting  them.  He  was  a  remarkably  handsome 
young  man;  tall,  well  formed,  very  well  dressed, 
hair  and  moustaches  carefully  trimmed,  and  fea 
tures  of  regular  though  manly  beauty,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  genial  kindness  and  courtesy. 


WHO  is  SHE?  13 

"  I  am  not  in  love,"  he  said  half  laughing.  "  But 
1  will  tell  you, — I  never  saw  a  nicer  girl  than  Lois 
Lothrop.  And  I  think  all  that  you  say  about  her 
being  poor,  and  all  that,  is  just — bosh." 

The  newspapers  went  down. 

"My  dear  boy,  Julia  is  right.  'I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  see  you  hurt  your  career  and  injure  your 
chances  by  choosing  a  girl  who  would  give  you  no 
sort  of  help.  And  you  would  regret  it  yourself, 
\vhen  it  was  too  late.  You  would  be  certain,  to  re 
gret  it.  You  could  not  help  but  regret  it." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  it.  But  why  should  I 
regret  it  ?  " 

"You  know  why,  as  well  as  I  'do.  Such  a  girl 
would  not  be  a  good  wife  for  you.  She  would  be  a 
millstone  round  your  neck." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Tom  thought  she  would  be  a  pleas 
ant  millstone  in  those  circumstances;  but  he  only 
remarked  that  he  believed  the  lady  in  question 
would  be  a  good  wife  for  whoever  could  get 
her. 

"  Well,  not  for  you.  You  can  have  anybody  you 
want  to,  Tom;  and  you  may  just  as  well  have 
money  and  family  as  well  as  beauty.  It  is  a  very 
bad  thing  for  a  girl  not  to  have  family.  That  de 
prives  her  husband  of  a  great  advantage ;  and  be 
sides,  saddles  upon  him  often  most  undesirable 
burdens  in  the  shape  of  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
nephews  perhaps.  What  is  this  girl's  family,  do 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Respectable,"  said  Tom,  "  or  she  would  not  be 


14  NOBODY. 

a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Wisharfc.  And  that  makes  her  a 
cousin  of  Edward's  wife." 

"  My  dear,  everybody  has  cousins ;  and  people  are 
not  responsible  for  them.  She  is  a  poor  relation, 
whom  Mrs.  Wishart  has  here  for  the  purpose  of  be 
friending  her;  she'll  marry  her  off  if  she  can;  arid 
you  would  do  as  well  as  another.  Indeed  you 
would  do  splendidly;  but  the  advantage  would  be 
all  on  their  side;  and  that  is  what  I  do  not  wish 
for  you." 

Tom  was  silent.  His  sister  remarked  that  Mrs. 
Wishart  really  was  not  a  match-maker. 

"No  more  than  everybody  is;  it  is  no  harm;  of 
course  she  would  like  to  see  this  little  girl  well 
married.  Is  she  educated  ?  Accomplished  ?  " 

"  Tom  can  tell,"  said  the  daughter.  "  I  never 
saw  her  do  anything.  What  can  she  do,  Tom?" 

"Do?"  said  Torn,  flaring  up.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Can  she  play?" 

"  No,  and  I  am  glad  she  can't.  If  ever  there  waa 
a  bore,  it  is  the  performances  of  you  young  ladies 
on  the  piano.  It's  just  to  shew  what  you  can  do. 
Who  cares,  except  the  music  master  ?  " 

"  Does  she  sing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know !  " 

"  Can  she  speak  French  ?  " 

"  French ! "  cried  Tom.  "  Who  wants  her  to 
speak  French?  We  talk  English  in  this  country." 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,  we  often  have  to  use  French 
or  some  other  language,  there  are  so  many  foreigners 


WHO  is  SHE?  15 

that  one  meets  in  society.  And  a  lady  must  know 
French  at  least.  Does  she  know  anything?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  "I  have  no  doubt 
she  does.  I  haven't  tried  her.  How  much,  do  you 
suppose,  do  girls  in  general  know?  girls  with  ever 
so  much  money  and  family?  And  who  cares*  how 
much  they  know?  One  does  not  seek  a  lady's 
society  for  the  purpose  of  being  instructed." 

"  One  might,  and  get  no  harm,"  said  the  sister 
softly;  but  Tom  flung  out  of  the  room.  "  Mamma, 
it  is  serious." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  elder  lady,  now 
thrusting  aside  all  her  papers. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  And  if  we  do  not  do  some 
thing — we  shall  all  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  What  is  this  girl,  Julia?     Is  she  pretty?  " 

Julia  hesitated.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I  suppose 
the  men  would  call  her  so." 

"You  don't?" 

"Well,  yes,  mamma;  she  is  pretty,  handsome, 
in  a  way ;  though  she  has  not  the  least  bit  of  style ; 
not  the  least  bit !  She  is  rather  peculiar ;  and  I  sup 
pose  with  the  men  that  is  one  of  her  attractions." 

"  Peculiar  ho  w  ?  "  said  the  mother,  looking  anxious. 

"I  cannot  tell;  it  is  indefinable.  And  yet  it  is 
very  marked.  Just  that  want  of  style  makes  her 
peculiar." 

"Awkward?" 

"No." 

"  Not  awkward.     How  then  ?     Shy  ?  " 

"No." 


16  NOBODY. 

"  How,  then,  Julia?     What  is  she  like?  " 

"  It  is  hard  to  tell  in  words  what  people  are  like. 
She  is  plainly  dressed,  but  not  badly ;  Mrs.  Wishart 
would  see  to  that ;  so  it  isn't  exactly  her  dress  that 
makes  her  want  of  style.  She  has  a  very  good 
figure;  uncommonly  good.  Then  she  has  most 
beautiful  hair,  marnma ;  a  full  head  of  bright  brown 
hair,  that  would  be  auburn  if  it  were  a  shade  or 
two  darker;  and  it  is  somewhat  wavy  and  curly, 
and  heaps  itself  around  her  head  in  a  way  that  is 
like  a  picture.  She  don't  dress  it  in  the  fashion ;  I 
don't  believe  there  is  a  hairpin  in  it,  and  I  am  sure 
there  isn't  a  cushion,  or  anything ;  only  this  bright 
brown  hair  puffing  and  waving  and  curling  itself 
together  in  some  inexplicable  way,  that  would  be 
very  pretty  if  it  were  not  so  altogether  out  of  the 
way  that  everybody  else  wears.  Then  there  is  a 
sweet,  pretty  face  under  it ;  but  you  can  see  at  the 
first  look  that  she  was  never  born  or  brought  up 
in  New  York  or  any  other  city,  and  knows  just 
nothing  about  the  world." 

"Dangerous!"  said  the  mother,  knitting  her 
brows. 

"Yes;  for  just  that  sort  of  thing  is  taking  to  the 
men ;  and  they  don't  look  any  further.  And  Tom 
above  all.  I  tell  you,  he  is  smitten,  mamma.  And 
he  goes  to  Mrs.  Wishart's  with  a  regularity  which 
is  appalling." 

u  Tom  takes  things  hard,  too,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Foolish  boy  !  "  was  the  sister's  comment. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  " 


WHO  is  SHE?  17 

"I'll  tell  you,  mamma.  I've  been  thinking.  Your 
health  will  never  stand  the  March  winds  in  New 
York.  You  must  go  somewhere." 

"Where?" 

"  Florida,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  it  very  well." 

"  It  would  be  better  anyhow  than  to  let  Tom  get 
hopelessly  entangled." 

"  Anything  would  be  better  than  that." 

"  And  prevention  is  better  than  cure.  You  can't 
apply  a  cure,  besides.  When  a  man  like  Tom,  or 
any  man,  once  gets  a  thing  of  this  sort  in  his  head, 
it  is  hopeless.  He'll  go  through  thick  and  thin,  and 
take  time  to  repent  afterwards.  Men  are  so  stupid ! " 

"  Women  sometimes." 

"Not  I,  mamma;  if  you  mean  me.  I  hope  for  the 
credit  of  your  discernment  you  don't." 

"  Lent  will  begin  soon,"  observed  the  elder  lady 
presently. 

"Lent  will  not  make  any  difference  with  Tom," 
returned  the  daughter.  "And  little  parties  are 
more  dangerous  than  big  ones." 

"  What  shall  I  do  about  the  party  we  were  going 
to  give?  I  should  be  obliged  to  ask  Mrs.  Wishart." 

"I'll  tell  you,  mamma,"  Julia  said  after  a  little 
thinking.  "  Let  it  be  a  luncheon  party ;  and  get 
Tom  to  go  down  into  the  country  that  day.  And 
then  go  off  to  Florida,  both  of  you." 


CHAPTER    II. 

AT     BREAKFAST. 

**  TTOW  do  you  like  New  York,  Lois?  You  have 
1 1  been  here  long  enough  to  judge  of  us  now  ?  " 
"Havel?" 

Mrs.  Wishart  and  her  guest  being  at  breakfast, 
this  question  and  answer  go  over  the  table.  It  is 
not  exactly  in  New  York  however.  That  is,  it  is 
within  the  city  bounds,  but  not  yet  among  the  city 
buildings.  Some  little  distance  out  of  town,  with 
green  fields  about  it,  and  trees,  and  lawn  sloping 
down  to  the  river  bank,  and  a  view  of  the  Jersey 
shore  on  the  other  side.  The  breakfast  room  win 
dows  look  out  over  this  view,  upon  which  the  winter 
sun  is  shining;  and  green  fields  stand  in  beautiful 
illumination,  with  patches  of  snow  lying  here  and 
there.  Snow  is  not  on  the  lawn  however.  Mrs. 
Wishart's  is  a  handsome  old  house,  not  according  to 
the  latest  fashion,  either  in  itself  or  its  fitting  up ; 
both  are  of  a  simpler  style  than  anybody  of  any  pre 
tension  would  choose  now-a-days;  but  Mrs.  Wishart 
has  no  need  to  make  any  pretension ;  her  standing 
(18) 


AT  BREAKFAST.  19 

and  her  title  to  it  are  too  well  known.  Moreover, 
there  are  certain  quaint  witnesses  to  it  all  over, 
wherever  you  look.  None  but  one  of  such  secured 
position  would  have  such  an  old  carpet  on  her  floor; 
and  few  but  those  of  like  antecedents  could  shew 
such  rare  old  silver  on  the  board.  The  shawl  that 
wraps  the  lady  is  India,  and  not  worn  for  show; 
there  are  portraits  on  the  walls  that  go  back  to  a  re 
spectable  English  ancestry;  there  is  precious  old 
furniture  about,  that  money  could  not  buy;  old  and 
quaint  and  rich,  and  yet  not  striking  the  eye ;  and 
the  lady  is  served  in  the  most  observant  style  by  one 
of  those  ancient  house  servants  whose  dignity  is  in 
separably  connected  with  the  dignity  of  the  house 
and  springs  from  it.  No  new  comer  to  wealth  and 
place  can  be  served  so.  The  whole  air  of  every 
thing  in  the  room  is  easy,  refined,  leisurely  as 
sured,  and  comfortable.  The  coffee  is  capital;  and 
the  meal,  simple  enough,  is  very  delicate  in  its 
arrangement. 

Only  the  two  ladies  are  at  the  table ;  one  behind 
the  coffee  urn,  and  the  other  near  her.  The  mis 
tress  of  the  house  has  a  sensible,  agreeable  face  and 
well  bred  manner;  the  other  lady  is  the  one  who 
has  been  so  jealously  discussed  and  described  in 
another  family.  As  Miss  Julia  described  her,  there 
she  sits,  in  a  morning  dress  which  lends  her  figure 
no  attraction  whatever.  And — her  figure  can  do 
without  it.  As  the  question  is  asked  her  about 
New  York,  her  eye  goes  over  to  the  glittering 
western  shore. 


20  NOBODY. 

"  I  like  this  a  great  deal  better  than  the  city," 
she  added  to  her  former  words. 

"  0  of  course,  the  brick  and  stone ! "  answered 
her  hostess.  "  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  mean,  how 
do  you  like  us  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Wishart,  I  like  you  very  much,"  said  the 
girl  with  a  certain  sweet  spirit. 

"Thank  you!  but  I  did  not  mean  that  either. 
Do  you  like  no  one  but  me?" 

"  I  do  not  know  anybody  else." 

"  You  have  seen  plenty  of  people." 

"  I  do  not  know  them,  though.  Not  a  bit.  One 
thing  I  do  not  like.  People  talk  so  on  the  surface 
of  things." 

"Do  you  want  them  to  go  deep?  in  an  evening 
party  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  only  in  evening  parties.  If  you  want 
me  to  say  what  I  think,  Mrs.  Wishart.  It  is  the 
same  always,  if  people  come  for  morning  calls,  or  if 
we  go  to  them,  or  if  we  see  them  in  the  evening; 
people  talk  about  nothing ;  nothing  they  care  about." 

"Nothing  you  care  about." 

"They  do  not  seem  to  care  about  it  either." 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  they  talk  it  then  ?  "  Mrs. 
Wishart  asked,  amused. 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  form  they  must  go  through," 
Lois  said,  laughing  a  little.  "  Perhaps  they  enjoy 
it,  but  they  do  not  seem  as  if  they  did.  And  they 
laugh  so  incessantly, — some  of  them, — at  what  has 
no  fun  in  it.  That  seems  to  be  a  form  too;  but 
laughing  for  form's  sake  seems  to  me  hard  work." 


AT  BREAKFAST.  21 

"  My  dear,  do  you  want  people  to  be  always 
serious  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean,  *  serious '  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  them  to  be  always  going  ( deep 
into  things  ?  " 

"N-o,  perhaps  not;  but  I  would  like  them  to  be 
always  in  earnest." 

"  My  dear !  What  a  fearful  state  of  society  you 
would  bring  about !  Imagine  once  that  everybody 
was  always  in  earnest!  " 

"  Why  not  ?  I  mean,  not  always  sober;  did  you 
think  I  meant  that?  I  mean,  whether  they  laugh 
or  talk,  doing  it  heartily,  and  feeling  and  thinking 
as  they  speak.  Or  rather,  speaking  and  laughing 
only  as  they  feel." 

"  My  dear,  do  you  know  what  would  become  of 
society  ?  " 

>"No.     What?" 

"I  go  to  see  Mrs.  Brinkerhoff,  for  instance.  I 
have  something  on  my  mind,  and  I  do  not  feel 
like  discussing  any  light  matter,  so  I  sit  silent. 
Mrs.  Brinkerhoff  has  a  fearfully  hard  piece  of  work 
to  keep  the  conversation  going;  and  when  I  have 
departed  she  votes  me^  a  great  bore  and  hopes  I 
will  never  come  again.  When  she  returns  my 
visit,  the  conditions  are  reversed ;  I  vote  her  a  bore ; 
and  we  conclude  it  is  easier  to  do  without  each 
other's  company." 

"But  do  you  never  find  people  a  bore  as  it 
is?" 

Mrs.  Wishart  laughed.     "  Do  you  ?  " 


22  NOBODY. 

"  Sometimes.  At  least  I  should  if  I  lived  among 
them.  Now,  all  is  new,  and  I  am  curious." 

"I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  Lois;  nobody  votes 
you  a  bore." 

"  But  I  never  talk  as  they  do." 

"  Never  mind.  There  are  exceptions  to  all  rules. 
But  my  dear,  even  you  must  not  be  always  so 
desperately  in  earnest.  By  the  way !  That  hand 
some  young  Mr.  Caruthers — does  he  make  himself 
a  bore  too  ?  You  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  him." 

"No,"  said  Lois  with  some  deliberation.  "He 
is  pleasant,  what  I  have  seen  of  him." 

"And  as  I  remarked,  that  is  a  good  deal.  Isn't 
he  a  handsome  fellow?  I  think  Tom  Caruthers 
is  a  good  fellow,  too.  And  he  is  likely  to  be  a 
successful  fellow.  He  is  starting  well  in  life,  and 
he  has  connections  that  will  help  him  on.  It  is  a 
good  family;  and  they  have  money  enough." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  '  a  good  family '  ?  " 

"  Why  you  know  what  that  phrase  expresses, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do,  in  your  sense.  You 
do  not  mean  religious  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart  smiling;  "not  neces 
sarily.  Keligioii  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I 
mean — we  mean —  It  is  astonishing  how  hard  it  is 
to  put  some  things!  I  mean,  a  family  that  has 
had  a  good  social  standing  for  generations.  Of 
course  such  a  family  is  connected  with  other  good 
families,  and  it  is  consequently  strong,  and  has 
advantages  for  all  belonging  to  it." 


AT  BREAKFAST.  23 

"  I  mean,"  said -Lois  slowly,  "a  family  that  has 
served  God  for  generations.  Such  a  family  has 
connections  too,  and  advantages." 

"  Why  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart,  opening  her 
eyes  a  little  at  the  girl,  "  the  two  things  are  not 
inconsistent,  I  hope." 

"I  hope  not." 

"  Wealth  and  position  are  good  things  at  any 
rate,  are  they  not  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  they  go,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lois. 
"O  yes,  they  are  pleasant  things;  and  good  things, 
if  they  are  used  right." 

"  They  are  whether  or  no.  Come  !  I  can't  have 
you  holding  any  extravagant  ideas,  Lois.  They 
don't  do  in  the  world.  They  make  one  peculiar, 
and  it  is  not  good  taste  to  be  peculiar." 

"  You  know,  I  am  not  in  the  world,"  Lois  an 
swered  quietly. 

"Not  when  you  are  at  home,  I  grant  you;  but 
here,  in  my  house,  you  are ;  and  when  you  have  a 
house  of  your  own,  it  is  likely  you  will  be.  No 
more  coffee,  my  dear  ?  Then  let  us  go  to  the  order 
of  the  day.  What  is  this,  Williams  ?  " 

"  For  Miss  Lot'rop — "  the  obsequious  servant  re 
plied  with  a  bow, — "  de  bo-quet."  But  he  presented 
to  his  mistress  a  little  note  on  his  salver,  and  then 
handed  to  Lois  a  magnificent  bunch  of  hothouse 
flowers.  Mrs.  Wishart's  eyes  followed  the  bouquet, 
and  she  even  rose  up  to  examine  it. 

"That  is  beautiful,  my  dear.  What  camellias! 
And  what  geraniums !  That  is  the  Black  Prince, 


24  NOBODY. 

one  of  those,  I  am  certain ;  yes,  I  am  sure  it  is ;  and 
that  is  one  of  the  new  rare  varieties.  That  has 
not  come  from  any  florist's  greenhouse.  IS  ever. 
And  that  rose-coloured  geranium  is  Lady  Suther 
land.  Who  sent  the  flowers,  Williams  ?  " 

"Here  is  his  card,  Mrs.  Wishart,"  said  Lois. 
"  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"Tom  Caruthers!"  echoed  Mrs.  Wishart.  "He 
has  cut  them  in  his  mother's  greenhouse,  the 
sinner ! " 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Lois.     "  Would  that  be  not  right? " 

"It  would  be  right,  if — .  Here's  a  note  from 
Tom's  mother,  Lois — but  not  about  the  flowers.  It 
is  to  ask  us  to  a  luncheon  party.  Shall  we  go  ?  " 

- "  You  know,  dear  Mrs.  Wishart,  I  go  just  where 
you  choose  to  take  me,"  said  the  girl,  on  whose 
cheeks  an  exquisite  rose  tint  rivalled  the  Lady 
Sutherland  geranium  blossoms.  Mrs.  Wishart  no 
ticed  it,  and  eyed  the  girl  as  she  was  engrossed 
with  her  flowers,  examining,  smelling,  and  smiling 
at  them.  It  was  pleasure  that  raised  that  delicious 
bloom  in  her  cheeks,  she  decided;  was  it  anything 
more  than  pleasure  ?  What  a  fair  creature !  thought 
her  hostess;  and  yet,  fair  as  she  is,  what  possible 
chance  for  her  in  a  good  family.  A  young  man 
may  be  taken  with  beauty,  but  not  his  relations; 
and  they  would  object  to  a  girl  who  is  nobody  and 
has  nothing.  Well,  there  is  a  chance  for  her,  and 
she  shall  have  the  chance. 

"Lois,  what  will  you  wear  to  this  luncheon 
party?" 


AT  BREAKFAST.  25 

"You  know  all  my  dresses,  Mrs.  Wishart.  1 
suppose  my  black  silk  would  be  right." 

"  No,  it  would  not  be  right  at  all.  You  are  too 
young  to  wear  black  silk  to  a  luncheon  party. 
And  your  white  dress  is  not  the  thing  either." 

"  I  have  nothing  else  that  would  do.  You  must 
let  me  be  old,  in  a  black  silk." 

"  I  will  not  let  you  be  anything  of  the  kind.  I 
will  get  you  a  dress." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Wishart;  I  cannot  pay  for  it." 

"  I  will  pay  for  it." 

"I  cannot  let  you  do  that.  You  have  done 
enough  for  me  already.  Mrs.  Wishart,  it  is  no 
matter.  People  will  just  think  I  cannot  afford 
anything  better,  and  that  is  the  very  truth." 

"No,  Lois;  they  will  think  you  do  not  know  any 
better." 

"That  is  the  truth  too,"- said  Lois  laughing. 

"  No  it  isn't ;  and  if  it  is,  I  do  not  choose  they 
should  think  so.  I  shall  dress  you  for  this  once, 
my  dear;  and  I  shall  not  ruin  myself  either." 

Mrs.  Wishart  had  her  way;  and  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  Lois  went  to  the  luncheon  party  in  a  dress  of 
bright  green  silk;  and  how  lovely  she  looked  in  it 
is  impossible  to  describe.  The  colour,  which  would 
have  been  ruinous  to  another  person,  simply  set  off 
her  delicate  complexion  and  bright  brown  hair  in 
the  most  charming  manner;  while  at  the  same  time 
the  green  was  not  so  brilliant  as  to  make  an  obvious 
patch  of  colour  wherever  its  wearer  might  be.  Mrs. 
Wishart  was  a  great  enemy  of  startling  effects, 


26  NOBODY. 

in  any  kind;  and  the  hue  was  deep  and  rich  and 
decided,  without  being  flashy. 

"You  never  looked  so  well  in  anything,"  was 
Mrs.  Wishart's  comment.  "I  have  hit  just  the 
right  thing.  My  dear,  I  would  put  one  of  those 
white  camellias  in  your  hair — that  will  relieve  the 
eye." 

"  From  what  ?  "  Lois  asked  laughing. 

44  Never  mind ;  you  do  as  I  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  LUNCHEON  PARTY. 

T  UNCHEON  parties  were  not  then  precisely  what 
JL/  they  are  now;  nevertheless  the  entertainment 
was  extremely  handsome.  Lois  and  her  friend  had 
first  a  long  drive  from  their  home  in  the  country  to 
a  house  in  one  of  the  older  parts  of  the  city.  Old 
the  house  also  was;  but  it  was  after  a  roomy  and 
luxurious  fashion,  if  somewhat  antiquated;  and  the 
air  of  ancient  respectability,  even  of  ancient  dis 
tinction,  was  stamped  upon  it,  as  upon  the  family 
that  inhabited  it.  Mrs.  Wishart  and  Lois  were 
received  with  warm  cordiality  by  Miss  Caruthers ; 
but  the  former  did  not  fail  to  observe  a  shadow  that 
crossed  Mrs.  Caruthers'  face  when  Lois  was  pre 
sented  to  her.  Lois  did  not  see  it,  and  would  not 
have  known  how  to  interpret  it  if  she  had  seen  it. 
She  is  safe,  thought  Mrs.  Wishart,  as  she  noticed 
the  calm  unembarrassed  air  with  which  Lois  sat 
down  to  talk  with  the  younger  of  her  hostesses. 

"You  are  making  a  long  stay  with  Mrs.  Wishart," 
was  the  unpromising  opening  remark. 

(27) 


28  NOBODY. 

"  Mrs.  Wishart  keeps  me." 

"  Do  you  often  come  to  visit  her  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  here  before." 

"  Then  this  is  your  first  acquaintance  with  New 
York?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  does  it  strike  you  ?  One  loves  to  get  at 
new  impressions  of  what  one  has  known  all  one's 
life.  Nothing  strikes  us  here,  I  suppose.  Do  tell 
me  what  strikes  you." 

"I  might  say,  everything." 

"How  delightful!  Nothing  strikes  me.  I  have 
seen  it  all  five  hundred  times.  Nothing  is  new." 

"  But  people  are  new,"  said  Lois.  "  I  mean  they 
are  different  from  one  another.  There  is  continual 
variety  there." 

"  To  me  there  seems  continual  sameness !  "  said 
the  other,  with  a  half  shutting  up  of  her  eyes, 
as  of  one  dazed  with  monotony.  "They  are 
all  alike.  I  know  beforehand  exactly  what  every 
one  will  say  to  me,  and  how  every  one  will  be 
have." 

"  That  is  not  how  it  is  at  home,"  returned  Lois. 
"It  is  different  there." 

"  People  are  not  all  alike  ?  " 

"No  indeed.     Perfectly  unlike,  and  individual." 

"  How  agreeable !  So  that  is  one  of  the  things 
that  strike  you  here  ?  the  contrast  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lois,  laughing;  "  /find  here  the  same 
variety  that  I  find  at  home.  People  are  not  alike 
to  me." 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  29 

"  But  different,  I  suppose,  from  the  varieties  you 
are  accustomed  to  at  home  ?  " 

Lois  admitted  that. 

"  Well  now  tell  me  how.  I  have  never  travelled 
in  New  England;  I  have  travelled  everywhere  else. 
Tell  me,  won't  you,  how  those  whom  you  see  here 
differ  from  the  people  you  see  at  home." 

"  In  the  same  sort  of  way  that  a  sea-gull  differs 
from  a  land  sparrow,"  Lois  answered  demurely. 

"  I  don't  understand.  Are  we  like  the  sparrows, 
or  like  the  gulls  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that.  I  mean  merely  that  the 
different  sorts  are  fitted  to  different  spheres  and 
ways  of  life." 

Miss  Caruthers  looked  a  little  curiously  at  the 
girl.  "  I  know  this  sphere,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  yours." 

"It  is  free  space,  instead  of  narrow  streets,  and 
clear  air,  instead  of  smoke.  And  the  people  all 
have  something  to  do,  and  are  doing  it." 

"  And  you  think  ice  are  doing  nothing  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Caruthers  laughing. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  mistaken.     It  seems  to  me  so." 

"  0  you  are  mistaken.  We  work  hard.  Arid 
yet,  since  I  went  to  school,  I  never  had  anything 
that  I  must  do,  in  my  life." 

"That  can  be  only  because  you  did  not  know 
what  it  was." 

"  I  had  nothing  that  I  must  do." 

"But  nobody  is  put  in  this  world  without  some 
thing  to  do,"  said  Lois.  "Do  you  think  a  good 


30  NOBODY. 

watchmaker  would  carefully  make  and  finish  a  very 
costly  pin  or  wheel,  and  put  it  in  the  works  of  his 
watch  to  do  nothing  ?  " 

Miss  Caruthers  stared  now  at  the  girl.  Had  this 
soft,  innocent  looking  maiden  absolutely  dared  to 
read  a  lesson  to  her? — "You  are  religious!"  she  re 
marked  drily. 

Lois  neither  affirmed  nor  denied  it.  Her  eye 
roved  over  the  gathering  throng;  the  rustle  of  silks, 
the  shimmer  of  lustrous  satin,  the  falls  of  lace,  the 
drapery  of  one  or  two  magnificent  camels'  hah: 
shawls,  the  carefully  dressed  heads,  the  carefully 
gloved  hands;  for  the  ladies  did  not  keep  on  their 
bonnets  then;  and  the  soft  murmur  of  voices,  which 
however  did  not  remain  soft.  It  waxed  and  grew, 
rising  and  falling,  until  the  room  was  filled  with  a 
breaking  sea  of  sound.  Miss  Caruthers  had  been 
called  off  to  attend  to  other  guests,  and  then  came 
to  conduct  Lois  herself  to  the  dining  room. 

The  party  was  large,  the  table  was  long;  and  it 
was  a  mass  of  glitter  and  glisten  with  plate  and 
glass.  A  superb  old  fashioned  epergne  in  the 
middle,  great  dishes  of  flowers  sending  their  per 
fumed  breath  through  the  room,  and  bearing  their 
delicate  exotic  witness  to  the  luxury  that  reigned 
in  the  house.  And  not  they  alone.  Before  each 
guest's  plate  a  semicircular  wreath  of  flowers  stood, 
seemingly  upon  the  tablecloth;  but  Lois  made  the 
discovery  that  the  stems  were  .safe  in  water  in 
crescent  shaped  glass  dishes,  like  little  troughs, 
which  the  flowers  completely  covered  up  and  hid. 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  31 

Her  own  special  wreath  was  of  heliotropes.  Miss 
Caruthers  had  placed  her  next  herself. 

There  were  no  gentlemen  present,  nor  expected, 
Lois  observed.  It  was  simply  a  company  of  ladies, 
met  apparently  for  the  purpose  of  eating;  for  that 
business  went  on  for  some  time,  with  a  degree  of 
satisfaction  and  a  supply  of  means  to  afford  satis 
faction,  which  Lois  had  never  seen  equalled.  From 
one  delicate  and  delicious  thing  to  another  she  was 
required  to  go,  until  she  came  to  a  stop;  but  that 
was  the  case,  she  observed,  with  no  one  else  of  the 
party. 

"  You  do  not  drink  wine  ?  "  asked  Miss  Caruthers 
civilly. 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Have  you  scruples  ?  "  said  the  young  lady  with 
a  half  smile. 

Lois  assented. 

"  Why  ?  what's  the  harm  ?  " 

"  We  all  have  scruples  at  Shampuashuh." 

"About  drinking  wine?  " 

"  Or  cider,  or  beer,  or  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  Do  tell  me  why." 

"  It  does  so  much  mischief." 

"Among  low  people,"  said  Miss  Caruthers  open 
ing  her  eyes;  "but  not  among  respectable  people." 

"  We  are  willing  to  hinder  mischief  anywhere," 
said  Lois  with  a  smile  of  some  fun. 

"  But  what  good  does  your  riot  drinking  it  do  ? 
That  will  not  hinder  them." 

"It  does  hinder  them,  though,"  said  Lois;  "for 


32  NOBODY. 

we  will  not  have  liquor  shops.  And  so,  we  have 
no  crime  in  the  town.  We  could  leave  our  doors 
unlocked,  with  perfect  safety,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
people  that  come  wandering  through  from  the  next 
towns,  where  liquor  is  sold.  We  have'  no  crime, 
and  no  poverty;  or  next  to  none." 

"  Bless  me !  what  an  agreeable  state  of  things. 
But  that  need  not  hinder  your  taking  a  glass  of 
champagne  here  ?  Everybody  here  has  no  scruple, 
and  there  are  liquor  shops  at  every  corner ;  there 
is  no  use  in  setting  an  example. 

But  Lois  declined  the  wine. 

"  A  cup  of  coffee  then  ?  " 

Lois  accepted  the  coffee. 

"  I  think  you  know  my  brother  ?  "  observed  Miss 
Caruthers  then,  making  her  observations  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Mr.  Caruthers  ?  yes ;  I  believe  he  is  your  brother." 

"I  have  heard  him  speak  of  you.  He  has  seen 
you  at  Mrs.  Wishart's,  I  think." 

"At  Mrs.  Wishart's— yes." 

Lois  spoke  naturally,  yet  Miss  Caruthers  fancied 
she  could  discern  a  certain  check  to  the  flow  of  her 
words. 

"  You  could  not  be  in  a  better  place  for  seeing 
what  New  York  is  like,  for  everybody  goes  to  Mrs. 
Wishart's;  that  is,  everybody  who  is  anybody." 

This  did  not  seem  to  Lois  to  require  any  answer. 
Her  eye  went  over  the  long  tableful;  went  from 
face  to  face.  Everybody  was  talking,  nearly  every 
body  was  smiling.  Why  not?  If  enjoyment  would 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  33 

make  them  smile,  where  could  more  means  of  en 
joyment  be  heaped  up,  than  at  this  feast?  Yet, 
Lois  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  tokens  of  real 
pleasure- taking  were  not  unequivocal.  She  was 
having  a  very  good  time;  full  of  amusement;  to 
the  others  it  was  an  old  story.  Of  what  use,  then  ? 

Miss  Caruthers  had  been  engaged  in  a  lively 
battle  of  words  with  some  of  her  young  compan 
ions;  and  now  her  attention  came  back  to  Lois, 
whose  meditative,  amused  expression  struck  her. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "you  are  philosophizing! 
Let  me  have  the  results  of  your  observations,  do ! 
What  do  your  eyes  see,  that  mine  perhaps  do 
not  ?  " 

" I  cannot  tell,"  said  Lois.  "Yours  ought  to  know 
it  all." 

"But  you  know,  we  do  not  see  what  we  have 
always  seen." 

"Then  I  have  an  advantage,"  said  Lois  pleas 
antly.  "  My  eyes  see  something  very  pretty." 

"But  you  were  criticizing  something. — 0  you 
unlucky  boy ! " 

This  exclamation  and  the  change  of  tone  with  it, 
seemed  to  be  called  forth  by  the  entrance  of  a  new 
comer,  even  Tom  Caruthers  himself.  Tom  was  not 
in  company  trim  exactly,  but  with  his  gloves  hi 
his  hand  and  his  overcoat  evidently  just  pulled  off. 
He  was  surveying  the  company  with  a  contented 
expression;  then  came  forward  and  began  a  series 
of  greetings  round  the  table;  not  hurrying  them, 
but  pausing  here  and  there  for  a  little  talk. 


34  NOBODY. 

"  Tom  !  "  cried  his  mother,  "  is  that  you  ?  " 

"To  command.  Yes,  Mrs.  Badger,  I  am  just  off 
the  cars.  I  did  not  know  what  I  should  find  here." 

"  How  did  you  get  back  so  soon,  Tom  ?  " 

"Had  nothing  to  keep  me  longer,  ma'am.  Miss 
Farrel,  I  have  the  honour  to  remind  you  of  a  philli- 
pcena" 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter.  It  bewildered  Lois, 
who  could  not  understand  what  they  were  laughing 
about,  and  could  as  little  keep  her  attention  from 
following  Tom's  progress  round  the  table.  Miss 
Caruthers  observed  this,  and  was  annoyed. 

"  Careless  boy !  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe  he 
has  done  the  half  of  what  he  had  to  do. — Tom, 
what  brought  you  home  ?  " 

Tom  was  by  this  time  approaching  them. 

"  Is  the  question  to  be  understood  in  a  physical 
or  moral  sense  ?  "  said  he. 

"  As  you  understand  it !  "  said  his  sister. 

Tom  disregarded  the  question,  and  paid  his  re 
spects  to  Miss  Lothrop.  Julia's  jealous  eyes  saw 
more  than  the  ordinary  gay  civility  in  his  face  and 
manner. 

"Tom,"  she  cried,  "have  you  done  everything? 
I  don't  believe  you  have." 

"  Have,  though,"  said  Tom.  And  he  offered  to 
Lois  a  basket  of  bon-bons. 

"Did  you  see  the  carpenter ? " 

"  Saw  him  and  gave  him  his  orders." 

"  Were  the  dogs  well  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  had  seen  them  bid  me  good  morning! " 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  35 

"  Did  you  look  at  the  mare's  foot  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  it?" 

"Nothing — a  nail — Miss  Lothrop,  you  have  no 
wine." 

"  Nothing !  and  a  nail !  "  cried  Miss  Julia  as  Lois 
covered  her  glass  with  her  hand  and  forbade  the 
wine.  "As  if  a  nail  were  not  enough  to  ruin  a 
horse !  0  you  careless  boy !  Miss  Lothrop  is  more 
of  a  philosopher  than  you  are.  She  drinks  no 
wine." 

Tom  passed  on,  speaking  to  other  ladies.  Lois 
had  scarcely  spoken  at  all;  but  Miss  Caruthers 
thought  she  could  discern  a  little  stir  in  the  soft 
colour  of  the  cheeks  and  a  little  additional  life  in  the 
grave  soft  eyes ;  and  she  wished  Tom  heartily  at  a 
distance. 

At  a  distance  however  he  was  no  more  that  day. 
He  made  himself  gracefully  busy  indeed  with  the 
rest  of  his  mother's  guests ;  but  after  they  quitted 
the  table  he  contrived  to  be  at  Lois's  side,  and  asked 
if  she  would  not  like  to  see  the  greenhouse?  It 
was  a  welcome  proposition,  and  while  nobody  at 
the  moment  paid  any  attention  to  the  two  young 
people,  they  passed  out  by  a  glass  door  at  the  other 
end  of  the  dining  room  into  the  conservatory,  while 
the  stream  of  guests  went  the  other  way.  Then 
Lois  was  plunged  in  a  wilderness  of  green  leafage 
and  brilliant  bloom,  warm  atmosphere  and  mixed 
perfume;  her  first  breath  was  an  involuntary  ex 
clamation  of  delight  and  relief. 


36  NOBODY. 

"Ah!  you  like  this  better  than  the  other  room, 
don't  you  ?  "  said  Tom. 

Lois  did  not  answer;  however,  she  went  with 
such  an  absorbed  expression  from  one  plant  to 
another,  that  Tom  must  needs  conclude  she  liked 
this  better  than  the  other  company  too. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful  greenhouse,"  she 
said  at  last,  "  nor  so  large  a  one." 

"  This  is  not  much,"  replied  Tom.  "  Most  of  our 
plants  are  in  the  country — where  I  have  come  from 
to-day;  this  is  just  a  city  affair.  Shampuashuh 
don't  cultivate  exotics,  then  ?  " 

"  0  no !     Nor  anything  much,  except  the  needful." 

"That  sounds  rather — tiresome,"  said  Tom. 

"  0  it  is  not  tiresome.  One  does  not  get  tired  of 
the  needful,  you  know." 

"Don't you?  /do,"  said  Tom.  "Awfully.  But 
what  do  you  do  for  pleasure  then,  up  there  in 
Shampuashuh  ?  " 

"  Pleasure  ?  0  we  have  it — I  have  it —  But  we  do 
not  spend  much  time  in  the  search  of  it. — 0  how 
beautiful !  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  It's  got  some  long  name — Metrosideros,  I  believe. 
What  do  you  do  for  pleasure  up  there  then,  Miss 
Lothrop?" 

"Dig  clams." 

"  Clams  !  "  cried  Tom. 

"  Yes.  Long  clams.  It's  great  fun.  But  I  find 
pleasure  all  over." 

"  How  come  you  to  be  such  a  philosopher  ?  " 

"That  is  not  philosophy." 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  37 

"  What  is  it  ?  I  can  tell  you,  there  isn't  a  girl  in 
New  York  that  would  say  what  you  have  just 
said." 

Lois  thought  the  faces  around  the  lunch  table 
had  quite  harmonized  with  this  statement.  She 
forgot  them  again  in  a  most  luxuriant  trailing 
Pelargonium  covered  with  large  white  blossoms  of 
great  elegance. 

"  But  it  is  philosophy  that  makes  you  not  drink 
wine  ?  Or  don't  you  like  it  ?  " 

"0  no,"  said  Lois,  "it  is  not  philosophy;  it  is 
humanity." 

"  How  ?  I  think  it  is  humanity  to  share  in 
people's  social  pleasures." 

"  If  they  were  harmless." 

"  This  is  harmless !  " 

Lois  shook  her  head.     "  To  you,  maybe." 

"  And  to  you.     Then  why  shouldn't  we  take  it  ?  " 

"For  the  sake  of  others,  to  whom  it  is  not 
harmless." 

"They  must  look  out  for  themselves." 

"Yes,  and  we  must  help  them." 

"We  cant  help  them.  If  a  man  hasn't  strength 
enough  to  stand,  you  cannot  hold  him  up." 

"  0  yes,"  said  Lois  gently,  "you  can  and  you  must. 
That  is  not  much  to  do !  When  on  one  side  it  is 
life,  and  on  the  other  side  it  is  only  a  minute's  taste 
of  something  sweet,  it  is  very  little,  I  think,  to  give 
up  one  for  the  other." 

"That  is  because  you  are  so  good,"  said  Tom. 
"  I  am  not  so  good." 


38  NOBODY. 

At  this  instant  a  voice  was  heard  within,  and 
sounds  of  the  servants  removing  the  lunch  dishes. 

"  I  never  heard  anybody  in  my  life  talk  as  you 
do,"  Torn  went  on. 

Lois  thought  she  had  talked  enough,  and  would 
say  no  more.  Torn  saw  she  would  not,  and  gave 
her  glance  after  glance  of  admiration,  which  began 
to  grow  into  veneration.  What  a  pure  creature 
was  this !  what  a  gentle  simplicity,  and  yet  what  a 
quiet  dignity !  what  absolutely  natural  sweetness, 
with  no  airs  whatever !  and  what  a  fresh  beauty. 

"  I  think  it  must  be  easier  to  be  good  where  you 
live,"  Tom  added  presently,  and  sincerely. 

"Why?  "said  Lois. 

"  I  assure  you  it  aint  easy  for  a  fellow  here." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  good,'  Mr.  Caruthers  ? 
not  drinking  wine?"  said  Lois  somewhat, amused. 

"I  mean,  to  be  like  you/'  said  he  softly.  "You 
are  better  than  all  the  rest  of  us  here." 

"  I  hope  not.  Mr.  Caruthers,  we  must  go  back 
to  Mrs.  Wishart,  or  certainly  she  will  not  think  mo 
good." 

So  they  went  back,  through  the  empty  lunch 
room. 

"I  thought  you  would  be  here  to-day,"  said  Tom. 
"I  was  not  going  to  miss  the  pleasure;  so  I  took  a 
frightfully  early  train,  and  despatched  business 
faster  than  it  had  ever  been  despatched  before,  at 
our  house.  I  surprised  the  people,  almost  as  much 
as  I  surprised  my  mother  and  Julia.  You  ought 
always  to  wear  a  white  camellia  in  your  hair ! " 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  39 

Lois  smiled  to  herself.  If  he  knew,  what  things 
she  had  to  do  at  her  own  home,  and  how  such  an 
adornment  would  be  in  place !  Was  it  easier  to 
be  good  there?  she  queried.  It  was  easier  to  be 
pleased  here.  The  guests  were  mostly  gone. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart  on  the  dTrive 
home,  "how  have  you  enjoyed  yourself?" 

Lois  looked  grave.  "  I  am  afraid  it  turns  my 
head,"  she  answered. 

"  That  shews  your  head  is  not  turned.  It  must 
carry  a  good  deal  of  ballast  too,  somewhere." 

"It  does,"  said  Lois.  "And  I  don't  like  to  have 
my  head  turned." 

"Tom,"  said  Miss  Julia,  as  Mrs.  Wishart's  car 
riage  drove  off  and  Tom  came  back  to  the  drawing 
room,  "you  mustn't  turn  that  little  girl's  head." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Tom. 

"You are  trying." 

"  I  am  doing  nothing  of  the  sort ! " 

"  Then  what  are  you  doing  ?  You  are  paying  her 
a  great  deal  of  attention.  She  is  not  accustomed  to 
our  ways;  she  will  not  understand  it.  I  do  not 
think  it  is  fair  to  her." 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  that  is  not  fair  to  her. 
She  is  worth  attention  ten  times  as  much  as  all  the 
rest  of  the  girls  that  were  here  to-day." 

"  But  Tom,  she  would  not  take  it  as  coolly.  She 
knows  only  country  ways.  She  might  think  at 
tentions  mean  more  than  they  do." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Tom. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  his  mother  now,  "it.  will 


40  NOBODY. 

not  do,  not  to  care.  It  would  not  be  honourable 
to  raise  hopes  you  do  not  mean  to  fulfil;  and  to 
take  such  a  girl  for  your  wife,  would  be  simply 
ruinous." 

"  Where  will  you  find  such  another  girl  ?  "  cried 
Tom,  flaring  up. 

"  But  she  has  nothing,  and  she  is  nobody." 

"  She  is  her  own  sweet  self,"  said  Tom. 

"  But  not  an  advantageous  wife  for  you,  my  dear. 
Society  does  not  know  her,  and  she  does  not  know 
society.  Your  career  would  be  a  much  more  hum 
ble  one  with  her  by  your  side.  And  money  you 
want,  too.  You  heed  it,  to  get  on  properly;  as  I 
wish  to  see  you  get  on,  and  as  you  wish  it  your 
self.  My  dear  boy,  do  not  throw  your  chances 
away ! " 

"  It's  my  belief,  that  is  just  what  you  are  trying 
to  make  me  do  !  "  said  the  young  man;  and  he  went 
off  in  something  of  a  huff. 

"Mamma,  we  must  do  something.  And  soon," 
remarked  Miss  Julia.  "  Men  are  such  fools !  He 
rushed  through  with  everything  and  came  home 
to-day  just  to  see  that  girl.  A  pretty  face  abso 
lutely  bewitches  them."  N.  B.  Miss  Julia  herself 
did  not  possess  that  bewitching  power. 

"  I  will  go  to  Florida,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers 
sighing. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ANOTHER    LUNCHEON    PARTY. 

A  JOURNEY  can  be  decided  upon  in  a  minute, 
but  not  so  soon  entered  upon.  Mrs.  Caruthers 
needed  a  week  to  make  ready;  and  during  that 
week  her  son  and  heir  found  opportunity  to  make 
several  visits  at  Mrs.  Wishart's.  A  certain  marriage 
connection  between  the  families  gave  him  somewhat 
the  familiar  right  of  a  cousin ;  he  could  go  when 
he  pleased ;  and  Mrs.  Wishart  liked  him,  and  used 
no  means  to  keep  him  away.  Tom  Caruthers  was 
a  model  of  manly  beauty ;  gentle  and  agreeable  in 
his  manners;  and  of  an  evidently  affectionate  and 
kindly  disposition.  Why  should  not  the  young 
people  like  each  other?  she  thought;  and  things 
were  in  fair  train.  Upon  this  came  the  departure 
for  Florida.  Tom  spoke  his  regrets  unreservedly 
out ;  he  could  not  help  himself,  his  mother's  health 
required  her  to  go  to  the  South  for  the  month  of 
March,  and  she  must  necessarily  have  his  escort. 
Lois  said  little.  Mrs.  Wishart  feared,  or  hoped,  she 
felt  the  more.  A  little  absence  is  no  harm,  the 
lady  thought;  may  be  no  harm.  But  now  Lois 

(41) 


42  NOBODY. 

began  to  speak  of  returning  to  Sliampuasbuh ;  and 
that  indeed  might  make  the  separation  too  long 
for  profit.  She  thought  too  that  Lois  was  a  little 
more  thoughtful  and  a  trifle  more  quiet  than  she 
had  been  before  this  journey  was  talked  of. 

One  day,  it  was  a  cold,  blustering  day  in  March, 
Mrs.  Wishart  and  her  guest  had  gone  down  into 
the  lower  part  of  the  city  to  do  some  particular 
shopping;  Mrs.  Wishart  having  promised  Lois  that 
they  would  take  lunch  and  rest  at  a  particular 
fashionable  restaurant.  Such  an  expedition  had  a 
great  charm  for  the  little  country  girl,  to  whom 
everything  was  new,  and  to  whose  healthy  mental 
senses  the  ways  and  manners  of  the  business  world, 
with  all  the  accessories  thereof,  were  as  interesting 
as  the  gayer  regions  and  the  lighter  life  of  fashion. 
Mrs.  Wishart  had  occasion  to  go  to  a  banker's  in 
Wall  Street;  she  had  business  at  the  Post  Office; 
she  had  something  to  do  which  took  her  to  several 
furrier's  shops;  she  visited  a  particular  magazine  of 
varieties  in  Maiden  Lane,  where  things,  she  told 
Lois,  were  about  half  the  price  they  bore  up  town. 
She  spent  near  an  hour  at  the  Tract  House  in  Nassau 
Street.  There  was  no  question  of  taking  the  car 
riage  into  these  regions;  an  omnibus  had  brought 
them  to  Wall  Street,  and  from  there  they  went 
about  on  their  own  feet,  walking  and  standing 
alternately,  till  both  ladies  were  well  tired.  Mrs. 
Wishart  breathed  out  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  took 
her  seat  in  the  omnibus  which  was  to  carry  them 
up  town  again. 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  43 

"  Tired  out,  Lois,  are  you  ?     I  am." 

"  I  am  not.     I  have  been  too  much  amused." 

"It's  delightful  to  take  you  anywhere!  You 
reverse  the  old  fairytale  catastrophe,  and  a  little 
handful  of  ashes  turns  to  fruit  for  you,  or  to  gold. 
Well,  I  will  make  some  silver  turn  to  fruit  presently. 
I  want  my  lunch,  and  I  know  you  do.  I  should 
like  to  have  you  with  me  always,  Lois.  I  get  some 
of  the  good  of  your  fairy  fruit  and  gold  when  you 
are  along  with  me.  Tell  me,  child;  do  you  do  that 
sort  of  thing  at  home  ?  " 

"  What  sort?"  said  Lois  laughing. 

"  Turning  nothings  into  gold  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lois.  "I  believe  I  do  pick 
up  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  gold  as  I  go  along. 
Bat  at  home  our  life  has  a  great  deal  of  sameness 
about  it,  you  know.  Here  everything  is  wonderful." 

"  Wonderful !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Wishart.  "  To  you 
it  is  wonderful.  And  to  me  it  is  the  dullest  old 
story,  the  whole  of  it.  I  feel  as  dusty  now,  men 
tally,  as  I  am  outwardly.  But  we'll  have  somo 
luncheon,  Lois,  and  that  will  be  refreshing,  I  hope." 

Hopes  were  to  be  much  disappointed.  Getting 
out  of  the  omnibus  near  the  locality  of  the  desired 
restaurant,  the  whole  street  was  found  in  confusion. 
There  had  been  a  fire,  it  seemed,  that  morning,  in 
a  house  adjoining  or  very  near,  and  loungers  and 
firemen  and  an  engine  and  hose  took  up  all  the 
way.  No  restaurant  to  be  reached  there  that  morn 
ing.  Greatly  dismayed,  Mrs.  Wishart  put  herself 
and  Lois  in  one  of  the  street  cars  to  go  on  up  town. 


44  NOBODY. 

"  I  am  famishing !  "  she  declared.  "  And  now  I 
do  not  know  where  to  go.  Everybody  has  had 
lunch  at  home  by  this  time,  or  there  are  half  a 
dozen  houses  I  could  go  to." 

"  Are  there  no  other  restaurants  but  that 
one?" 

"Plenty;  but  I  could  not  eat  in  comfort  unless 
I  know  things  are  clean.  I  know  that  place,  and 
the  others  I  don't  know.  Ha,  Mr.  Dillwyn !  " — 

This  exclamation  was  called  forth  by  the  sight 
of  a  gentleman  who  just  at  that  moment  was  en 
tering  the  car.  Apparently  he  was  an  old  acquaint 
ance,  for  the  recognition  was  eager  on  both  sides. 
The  new  comer  took  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of 
Mrs.  Wishart. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from,"  said  he,  "  that  I 
find  you  here  ?  " 

"From  the  depths  of  business — Wall  Street — 
and  all  over;  and  now  the  depths  of  despair, 
that  we  cannot  get  lunch.  I  am  going  home 
starving." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"Just  a  contre-temps.  I  promised  my  young 
friend  here  I  would  give  her  a  good  lunch  at  the 
best  restaurant  I  knew;  and  to-day  of  all  days,  and 
just  as  we  come  tired  out  to  get  some  refreshment, 
there's  a  fire  and  firemen  and  all  the  street  in  a 
hubbub.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  go  home  fast- 
ing." 

"No,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  better  thing.  You 
will  do  me  the  honour  and  give  me  the  pleasure  of 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  45 

lunching  with  me.     I  am  living  at  the  '  Imperial,' 
— and  here  we  are !  "      • 

He  signalled  the  car  to  stop,  even  as  he  spoke, 
and  rose  to  help  the  ladies  out.  Mrs.  Wishart  had 
no  time  to  think  about  it,  and  on  the  sudden  im 
pulse  yielded.  They  left  the  car,  and  a  few  steps 
brought  them  to  the  immense  beautiful  building 
called  the  Imperial  Hotel.  Mr.  Dillwyn  took  them 
in  as  one  at  home,  conducted  them  to  the  great 
dining  room;  proposed  to  them  to  go  first  to  a 
dressing  room,  but  this  Mrs.  Wishart  declined.  So 
they  took  places  at  a  small  table,  near  enough  to 
one  of  the  great  clear  windows  for  Lois  to  look 
down  into  the  Avenue  and  see  all  that  was  going 
on  there.  But  first  the  place  where  she  was  oc 
cupied  her.  With  a  kind  of  wondering  delight  her 
eye  went  down  the  lines  of  the  immense  room, 
reviewed  its  loftiness,  its  adornments,  its  light  and 
airiness  and  beauty;  its  perfection  of  luxurious  fur 
nishing  and  outfitting.  Few  people  were  in  it  just 
at  this  hour,  and  the  few  were  too  far  off  to  trouble 
at  all  the  sense  of  privacy.  Lois  was  tired,  she  was 
hungry;  this  sudden  escape  from  din  and  motion 
and  dust,  to  refreshment  and  stillness  and  a  soft 
atmosphere,  was  like  the  changes  in  an  Ara 
bian  Nights  enchantment.  And  the  place  was 
splendid  enough  and  dainty  enough  to  fit  into 
one  of  those  stories  too.  Lois  sat  back  in  her 
chair,  quietly  but  intensely  enjoying.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  she  herself  might  be  a  worthy 
object  of  contemplation. 


46  NOBODY. 

Yet  a  fairer  might  have  been  •sought  for,  all  New 
York  through.  She  was  jiot  vulgarly  gazing;  she 
had  not  the  aspect  of  one  strange  to  the  place; 
quiet,  grave,  withdrawn  into  herself,  she  wore  an 
air  of  most  sweet  reserve  and  unconscious  dignity. 
Features  more  beautiful  might  be  found  no  doubt, 
and  in  numbers;  it  was  not  the  mere  lines,  nor  the 
mere  colours  of  her  face,  which  made  it  so  remark 
able,  but  rather  the  mental  character.  The  beau 
tiful  poise  of  a  spirit  at  rest  within  itself;  the 
simplicity  of  unconsciousness;  the  freshness  of  a 
mind  to  which  nothing  has  grown  stale  or  old,  and 
which  sees  nothing  in  its  conventional  shell;  along 
with  the  sweetness  that  comes  of  habitual  dwelling 
in  sweetness.  Both  her  companions  occasionally 
looked  at  her;  Lois  did  not  know  it;  she  did  not 
think  herself  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  looked  at. 

And  then  came  the  luncheon.  Such  a  luncheon ! 
and  served  with  a  delicacy  which  became  it.  Choc 
olate  which  was  a  rich  froth ;  rolls  which  were  pufF 
balls  of  perfection ;  salad,  and  fruit.  Anything  yet 
more  substantial  Mrs.  Wishart  declined.  Also  she 
declined  wine. 

"  I  should  not  dare,  before  Lois,"  she  said. 

Therewith  came  their  entertainer's  eyes  round  to 
Lois  again. 

"  Is  she  allowed  to  keep  your  conscience,  Mrs. 
Wishart?" 

"Poor  child!  I  don't  charge  her  with  that. 
But  you  know,  Mr.  Dillwyn,  in  presence  of  angels 
one  would  walk  a' little  carefully  !  " 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  47 

"  That  almost  sounds  as  if  the  angels  would  be 
uncomfortable  companions,"  said  Lois. 

"Not  quite  sans  gene" — the  gentleman  added, 
Then  Lois's  eyes  met  his  full. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  that  is,"  she  said. 

"  Only  a  couple  of  French  words." 

"  I  do  not  know  French,"  said  Lois  simply. 

He  had  not  seen  before  what  beautiful  eyes  they 
were ;  soft  and  grave,  and  true  with  the  clearness 
of  the  blue  ether.  He  thought  he  would  like 
another  such  look  into  their  transparent  depths. 
So  he  asked, 

"  But  what  is  it  about  the  wine  ?  " 

"  0  we  are  water-drinkers  up  about  my  home," 
Lois  answered,  looking  however  at  her  chocolate 
cup  from  which  she  was  refreshing  herself. 

"  That  is  what  the  English  call  us  as  a  nation,  I 
am  sure  most  inappropriately.  Some  of  us  know 
good  wine  when  we  see  it;  and  most  of  the  rest 
have  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  wine  or  some 
thing  else  that  is  not  good.  Perhaps  Miss  Lothrop 
has  formed  her  opinion,  and  practice,  upon  knowl 
edge  of  this  latter  kind  ?  " 

Lois  did  not  say;  she  thought  her  opinions,  or 
practice,  could  have  very  little  interest  for  this  fine 
gentleman. 

"  Lois  is  unfashionable  enough  to  form  her  own 
opinions,"  Mrs.  Wishart  remarked. 

"  But  not  inconsistent  enough  to  build  them  on 
nothing,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  could  tell  you  what  they  are  built  on,"  said 


48  NOBODY. 

Lois,  brought  out  by  this  challenge;  "but  I  do  not 
know  that  you  would  see  from  that  how  well  founded 
they  are." 

"  I  should  be  very  grateful  for  such  an  in 
dulgence." 

"In  this  particular  case  we  are  speaking  of,  they 
are  built  on  two  foundation  stones — both  out  of  the 
same  quarry,"  said  Lois,  her  colour  rising  a  little, 
while  she  smiled  too.  "  One  is  this — '  Whatsoever 
ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even 
so  to  them.'  And  the  other — '  I  will  neither 
eat  meat,  nor  drink  wine,  nor  anything,  by  which 
my  brother  stumbleth,  or  is  offended,  or  made 
weak.'" 

Lois  did  not  look  up  as  she  spoke,  and  Mrs. 
Wish  art  smiled  with  amusement.  Their  host's 
face  expressed  an  undoubted  astonishment.  He 
regarded  the  gentle  and  yet  bold  speaker  with 
steady  attention  for  a  minute  or  two,  noting  the 
modesty,  and  the  gentleness,  and  the  fearlessness 
with  which  she  spoke.  Noting  her  great  beauty 
too. 

"Precious  stones! "  said  he  lightly  when  she  had 
done  speaking.  "  I  do  not  know  whether  they  are 
broad  enough  for  such  a  superstructure  as  you 
would  build  on  them."  And  then  he  turned  to 
Mrs.  Wishart  again,  and  they  left  the  subject  and 
plunged  into  a  variety  of  other  subjects  where  Lois 
scarce  could  follow  them. 

What  did  they  not  talk  of!  Mr.  Dillwyn,  it 
appeared,  had  lately  returned  from  abroad,  where 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  49 

Mrs.  Wishart  had  also  formerly  lived  for  some  time; 
and  now  they  went  over  a  multitude  of  things  and 
people  familiar  to  both  of  them,  but  of  which  Lois 
did  not  even  know  the  names.  She  listened  how 
ever,  eagerly ;  and  gleaned,  *as  an  eager  listener 
generally  may,  a  good  deal.  Places,  until  now 
unheard-of,  took  a  certain  form  and  aspect  in  Lois's 
imagination ;  people  were  discerned,  also  in  imagi 
nation,  as  being  of  different  types  and  wonderfully 
different  habits  and  manners  of  life  from  any  Lois 
knew  at  home  or  had  even  seen  in  New  York.  She 
heard  pictures  talked  of,  and  wondered  what  sort 
of  a  world  that  art  world  might  be,  iri  which  Mr. 
Dillwyn  was  so  much  at  home.  Lois  had  never 
seen  any  pictures  in  her  life  which  were  much 
to  her.  And  the  talk  about  countries  sounded 
strange.  She  knew  where  Germany  was  on  the 
map,  and  could  give  its  boundaries  no  doubt  accu 
rately;  but  all  this  gossip  about  the  Khineland  and 
its  vineyards  and  the  vintages  there  and  in  France, 
sounded  fascinatingly  novel.  And  she  knew  where 
Italy  was  on  the  map ;  but  Italy's  skies,  and  soft  air, 
and  mementos  of  past  times  of  history  and  art, 
were  unknown ;  and  she  listened  with  ever  quick 
ening  attention.  The  result  of  the  whole  at  last 
was  a  mortifying  sense  that  she  knew  nothing. 
These  people,  her  friend  and  this  other,  lived  in-  a 
world  of  mental  impressions  and  mentally  stored-up 
knowledge,  which  seemed  to  make  their  life  un 
endingly  broader  and  richer  than  her  own.  Espe 
cially  the  gentleman.  Lois  observed  that  it  was 


50  NOBODY. 

constantly  he  who  had  something  new  to  tell  Mrs. 
Wishart,  and  that  in  all  the  ground  they  went  over, 
he  was  more  at  home  than  she.  Indeed  Lois  got 
the*  impression  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  knew  the  world 
and  everything  in  it  better  than  anybody  she  had 
ever  seen.  Mr.  Caruthers  was  extremely  au  fait  in 
many  things;  Lois  had  the  thought,  not  the  word; 
but  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  an  older  man  and  had  seen 
much  more.  He  was  terrifically  wise  in  it  all,  she 
thought;  and  by  degrees  she  got  a  kind  of  awe  of 
him.  A  little  of  Mrs.  Wishart  too.  How  much  her 
friend  knew,  how  at  home  she  was  in  this  big  world ! 
what  a  plain  little  piece  of  ignorance  was  she  her 
self  beside  her.  Well,  thought  Lois — every-one  to 
his  place !  My  place  is  Shampuashuh.  I  suppose 
I  am  fitted  for  that. 

"Miss  Lothrop,"  said  their  entertainer  here,  "will 
you  allow  me  to  give  you  some  grapes  ?  " 

"  Grapes  in  March ! "  said  Lois  smiling,  as  a  beau 
tiful  white  bunch  was  laid  before  her.  "  People 
who  live  in  New  York  can  have  everything,  it 
seems,  that  they  want." 

"Provided  they  can  pay  for  it," — Mrs.  Wishart 
put  in. 

"  How  is  it  in  your  part  of  the  world  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Dillwyn.  "  You  cannot  have  what  you  want  ?  " 

"  Depends  upon  what  order  you  keep  your  wishes 
in,"  said  Lois.  "You  can  have  strawberries  in 
June — and  grapes  in  September." 

"  What  order  do  you  keep  your  wishes  in  ?  "  was 
the  next  question. 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  51 

"  I  think  it  best  to  have  as  few  as  possible." 

"  But  that  would  reduce  life  to  a  mere  framework 
of  life, — if  one  had  no  wishes  !  " 

"  One  can  find  something  else  to  fill  it  up,"  said 
Lois.  . 

"  Pray  what  would  you  substitute  ?  For  with 
wishes  I  connect  the  accomplishment  of  wishes." 

"Are  they  always  connected?" 

"Not  always;  but  generally,  the  one  are  the 
means  to  the  other." 

"  I  believe  I  do  not  find  it  so." 

"  Then,  pardon  me,  what  would  you  substitute, 
Miss  Lothrop,  to  fill  up  your  life,  and  not  have  it  a 
bare  existence  ?  " 

"There  is  always  work — "  said  Lois  shyly;  "  and 
there  are  the  pleasures  that  come  without  being 
wished  for.  I  mean,  without  being  particularly 
sought  and  expected." 

"  Does  much  come  that  way  ?  "  asked  their  en 
tertainer  with  an  incredulous  smile  of  mockery. 

"O  a  great  deal!"  cried  Lois;  and  then  she 
checked  herself. 

"This  is  a  very  interesting  investigation,  Mrs. 
Wishart,"  said  the  gentleman.  "  Do  you  think  I 
may  presume  upon  Miss  Lothrop's  good  nature, 
and  carry  it  further  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lothrop's  good  nature  is  a  commodity  I 
never  knew  yet  to  fail." 

"Then  I  will  go  on,  for  I  am  curious  to  know, 
with  an  honest  desire  to  enlarge  my  circle  of 
knowledge.  Will  you  tell  me,  Miss  Lothrop,  what 


52  NOBODY. 

are  the  pleasures  in  your  mind  when  you  speak  of 
their  coming  unsought?  " 

Lois  tried  to  draw  back. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  would  understand  them,' 
she  said  a  little  shyly. 

"I  trust  you  do  my  understanding  less  than 
justice ! " 

"No,"  said  Lois  blushing,  "for  your  enjoyments 
are  in  another  line." 

"  Please  indulge  me,  and  tell  me  the  line  of 
yours." 

He  is  laughing  at  me — thought  Lois.  And  her 
next  thought  was,  What  matter !  So  after  an  in 
stant's  hesitation  she  answered  simply. 

"  To  anybody  who  has  travelled  over  the  world, 
Shampuashuh  is  a  small  place;  and  to  anybody 
who  knows  all  you  have  been  talking  about,  what 
we  know  at  Shampuashuh  would  seem  very  little. 
But  every  morning  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  wake 
and  see  the  sun  rise;  and  the  fields,  and  the  river, 
and  the  Sound,  are  a  constant  delight  to  me  at  all 
times  of  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather.  A  walk 
or  a  ride  is  always  a  great  pleasure,  and  different 
every  time.  Then  I  take  constant  pleasure  in.  my 
work." 

"  Mrs.  Wishart,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  this  is  a 
revelation  to  me.  Would  it  be  indiscreet,  if  I  were 
to  ask  Miss  Lothrop  what  she  can  possibly  mean 
under  the  use  of  the  term  '  work '  ?  " 

I  think  Mrs.  Wishart  considered  that  it  would  be 
rather  indiscreet,  and  wished  Lois  would  be  a  little 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  53 

reticent  about  her  home  affairs.  Lois  however  had 
no  such  feeling. 

"  I  mean  work,"  she  said.  "  I  can  have  no  ob 
jection  that  anybody  should  know  what  our  life  is 
at  home.  We  have  a  little  farm,  very  small ;  it 
just  keeps  a  few  cows  and  sheep.  In  the  house 
we  are  three  sisters;  and  we  have  an  old  grand 
mother  to  take  cxare  of,  and  to  keep  the  house, 
and  manage  the  farm." 

"But  surely  you  cannot  do  that  last?"  said  the 
gentleman. 

"  We  do  not  manage  the  cows  and  sheep,"  said 
Lois  smiling;  "men's  hands  do  that;  but  we  make 
the  butter,  and  we  spin  the  wool,  and  we  cultivate 
our  garden.  That  we  do  ourselves  entirely;  and 
we  have  a  good  garden  too.  And  that  is  one  of 
the  things,"  added  Lois  smiling,  "  in  which  I  take 
unending  pleasure." 

"  What  can  you  do  in  a  garden  ?  " 

"  All  there  is  to  do,  except  ploughing.  We  get 
a  neighbour  to  do  that." 

"  And  the  digging." 

"  I  can  dig,"  said  Lois  laughing. 

"  But  do  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  And  sow  seeds,  and  dress  beds  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  And  enjoy  every  moment  of  it.  I 
do  it  early,  before  the  sun  gets  hot.  And  then, 
there  is  all  the  rest;  gathering  the  fruit,  and  pull 
ing  the  vegetables,  and  the  care  of  them  when  we 
have  got  them;  and  I  take  great  pleasure  in  it 


54  NOBODY. 

all.  The  summer  mornings  and  spring  mornings 
in  the  garden  are  delightful,  and  all  the  work  of  a 
garden  is  delightful,  I  think." 

"  You  will  except  the  digging  ?  " 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  Lois  quietly. 
"No,  I  do  not  except  the  digging.  I  like  it  par 
ticularly.  Hoeing  and  raking  I  do  not  like  half  so 
well."  * 

"I  am  not  laughing,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn,  "or 
certainly  not  at  you.  If  at  anybody,  it  is  myself. 
I  am  filled  with  admiration." 

"There  is  no  room  for  that  either,"  said  Lois. 
"  We  just  have  it  to  do,  and  we  do  it;  that  is  all." 

"  Miss  Lothrop,  I  never  have  had  to  do  anything 
in  my  life,  since  I  left  college." 

Lois  thought  privately  her  own  thoughts,  but  did 
not  give  them  expression ;  she  had  talked  a  great 
deal  more  than  she  meant  to  do.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Wishart  too  thought  there  had  been  enough  of  it, 
for  she  began  to  make  preparations  for  departure. 

"Mrs.  Wishart,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn,  "I  have  to 
thank  you  for  the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  enjoyed 
since  I  landed." 

"Unsought  and  unwished-for,  too,  according  to 
Miss  Lothrop's  theory.  Certainly  we  have  to  thank 
you,  Philip,  for  we  were  in  a  distressed  condition 
when  you  found  us.  Come  and  see  me.  And," 
she  added  sotto  voce.  as  he  was  leading  her  out 
and  Lois  had  stepped  on  before  them,  "  I  consider 
that  all  the  information  that  has  been  given  you 
is  strictly  in  confidence." 


ANOTHER  LUNCHEON  PARTY.  55 

"  Quite  delicious  confidence ! " 

"  Yes,  but  not  for  all  ears,"  added  Mrs.  Wishart 
somewhat  anxiously. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  me  worthy.  I  will  not 
abuse  the  trust." 

"  I  did  not  say  I  thought  you  worthy,"  said  the 
lady  laughing;  "  I  was  not  consulted.  Young  eyes 
see  the  world  in  the  fresh  colours  of  morning,  and 
think  daisies  grow  everywhere." 

They  had  reached  the  street.  Mr.  Dillwyn  ac 
companied  the  ladies  a  part  of  their  way  and  then 
took  leave  of  them. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN    COUNCIL. 

SAUNTERING  back  to  his  hotel,  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
O  thoughts  were  a  good  deal  engaged  with  the 
impressions  of  the  last  hour.  It  was  odd,  too;  he 
had  seen  all  varieties  and  descriptions  of  feminine 
fascination,  or  he  thought  he  had;  some  of  them 
in  very  high  places  and  with  all  the  adventitious 
charms  which  wealth  and  place  and  breeding  can 
add  to  those  of  nature's  giving.  Yet  here  was 
something  new.  A  novelty  as  fresh  as  one  of  the 
daisies  Mrs.  Wishart  had  spoken  of.  He  had  seen 
daisies  too  before,  he  thought;  and  was  not  particu 
larly  fond  of  that  style.  No;  this  was  something 
other  than  a  daisy. 

Sauntering  along  and  not  heeding  his  surround 
ings,  he  was  suddenly  hailed  by  a  joyful  voice,  and 
an  arm  was  thrust  within  his  own. 

"  Philip !  where  did  you  come  from  ?  and  when 
did  you  come  ?  " 

"  Only  the  other  day — from  Egypt — was  coming 
to  see  you,  but  have  been  bothered  with  Custom 
house  business.     How  do  you  all  do,  Tom  ? 
(56) 


IN  COUNCIL.  57 

"What  are  you  bringing  over?  curiosities?  or 
precious  things  V  " 

"  Might  be  both.     How  do  you  do,  old  boy  ?  " 

"  Very  much  put  out,  just  at  present,  by  a  notion 
of  my  mother's,  she  will  go  to  Florida  to  escape 
March  winds." 

"Florida!  Well,  Florida  is  a  good  place,  when 
March  is  stalking  abroad  like  this.  What  are  you 
put  out  for?  I  don't  comprehend." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see,  the  month  will  be  half  over 
before  she  gets  ready  to  be  off;  and  what's  the  use  ? 
April  will  be  here  directly;  she  might  just  as  well 
wait  here  for  April." 

"You  cannot  pick  oranges  off  the  trees  here  in 
April.  You  forget  that." 

"  Don't  want  to  pick  'em  anywhere.  But  come 
along,  and  see  them  at  home.  They'll  be  awfully 
glad  to  see  you." 

It  was  not  far,  and  talking  of  nothings  the  two 
strolled  that  way.  There  was  much  rejoicing  over 
Philip's  return,  and  much  curiosity  expressed  as  to 
where  he  had  been  and  what  he  had  been  doing  for 
a  long  time  past.  Finally  Mrs.  Caruthers  proposed 
that  he  should  go  on  to  Florida  with  them. 

"  Yes,  do ! "  cried  Tom.     "  You  go,  and  I'll  stay." 

"  My  dear  Tom ! "  said  his  mother,  "  I  could  not 
possibly  do  without  you." 

"  Take  Julia.  I'll  look  after  the  house,  and  Dil- 
Iwyn  will  look  after  your  baggage." 

*'And  who  will  look  after  you,  you  silly  boy?' 
Baid  his  sister.  "  You're  the  worst  charge  of  all." 


58  NOBODY. 

"  What  is  "the  matter?"  Philip  asked  now. 

"  Women's  notions,"  said  Tom.  "  Women  are  al 
ways  full  of  notions !  They  can  spy  game  at  hawk's 
distance;  only  they  make  a  mistake  sometimes, 
which  the  hawk  don't,  I  reckon;  and  think  they 
see  something  when  there  is  nothing." 

"  We  know  what  we  see  this  time,"  said  his  sister. 
"  Philip,  he's  dreadfully  caught." 

"Not  the  first  time?"  said  Dillwyn  humorously. 
"No  danger,  is  there?" 

"There  is  real  danger,"  said  Miss  Julia.  "  He  is 
caught  with  an  impossible  country  girl." 

"  Caught  l)y  her  ?     Fie,  Tom !  aren't  you  wiser  ?  " 

"  That's  not  fair ! "  cried  Tom  hotly.  "  She  catches 
nobody,  nor  tries  it,  in  the  way  you  mean.  I  am 
not  caught,  either;  that's  more;  but  you  shouldn't 
speak  in  that  way." 

"Who  is  the  lady?  It  is  very  plain  Tom  isn't 
caught.  But  where  is  she?" 

"  She  is  a  little  country  girl,  come  to  see  the 
world  for  the  first  time.  Of  course,  she  makes  great 
eyes;  and  the  eyes  are  pretty;  and  Tom  couldn't 
stand  it."  Miss  Julia  spoke  laughing,  yet  serious. 

"  I  should  not  think  a  little  country  girl  would 
be  dangerous  to  Tom." 

"  No,  would  you  ?  It's  vexatious,  to  have  one's 
confidence  in  one's  brother  so  shaken." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  broke  out  Tom 
here.  "  I  am  not  caught,  as  you  call  it,  neither  by 
her  nor  with  her ;  but  if  you  want  to  discuss  her,  I 
say,  what's  the  matter  with  her?" 


IN  COUNCIL.  59 

"Nothing,  Tom!"  said  his  mother  soothingly; 
"there  is  nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  her; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  a  nice  girl.  But  she 
has  no  education." 

"Hang  education!"  said  Tom.  "Anybody  can 
pick  that  up.  She  can  talk,  I  can  tell  you,  better 
than  anybody  of  all  those  you  had  round  your  table 
the  other  day.  She's  an  uncommon  good  talker." 

"You  are,  you  mean,"  said  his  sister;  "and  she 
listens  and  makes  big  eyes.  Of  course,  nothing 
can  be  more  delightful.  But  Tom,  she  knows  noth 
ing  at  all;  not  so  much  as  how  to  dress  herself." 

"  Wasn't  she  well  enough  dressed  the  other 
day?" 

"  Somebody  arranged  that  for  her." 

"Well,  somebody  could  do  it  again.  You  girls 
think  so  much  of  dressing.  It  isn't  the  first  thing 
about  a  woman  after  all." 

"You  men  think  enough  about  it,  though.  What 
would  tempt  you  to  go  out  with  me  if  I  wasn't 
assez  bien  mise?  Or  what  would  take  any  man 
down  Broadway  with  his  wife  if  she  hadn't  a 
hoop  on?" 

"  Doesn't  the  lady  in  question  wear  a  hoop  ? " 
inquired  Philip. 

"No,  she  don't." 

"  Singular  want  of  taste !  " 

"Well,  you  don't  like  them;  but  after  all,  it's  the 
fashion,  and  one  can't  help  oneself.  And  as  I  said, 
you  may  not  like  them,  but  you  wouldn't  walk 
with  me  if  I  hadn't  one." 


60  NOBODY. 

"  Then,  to  sum  up — the  deficiencies  of  this  lady, 
as  I  understand,  are, — education,  and  a  hoop?  Is 
that  all  ?  " 

"  By  no  means !  "  cried  Mrs.  Caruthers.  "  She  is 
nobody,  Philip.  She  comes  from  a  family  in  the 
country — very  respectable  people,  I  have  no  doubt, 
but, — well,  she  is  nobody.  No  connections,  no 
habit  of  the  world.  And  no  money.  They  are 
quite  poor  people." 

"That  is  serious,"  said  Dillwyn.  "Tom  is  in 
such  straitened  circumstances  himself.  I  was 
thinking,  he  might  be  able  to  provide  the  hoop; 
but  if  she  has  no  money,  it  is  critical." 

x"You  may  laugh!"  said  Miss  Julia.  "That  is 
all  the  comfort  one  gets  from  a  man.  But  he  does 
not  laugh  when  it  comes  to  be  his  own  case  and 
matters  have  gone  too  far  to  be  mended,  and  he  is 
feeling  the  consequences  of  his  rashness." 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  were  in  danger !  But  I  do 
not  see  how  it  should  come  to  be  '  my  own  case,' 
as  I  never  even  saw  the  lady.  Who  is  she  ?  and 
where  is  she  ?  and  how  comes  she — so  dangerous 
— to  be  visiting  you  ?  " 

All  spoke  now  at  once,  and  Philip  heard  a  con 
fused  medley  of  "Mrs.  Wishart "— " Miss  Lothrop" 
— "staying  with  her" — "poor  cousin" — "kind  to 
her  of  course." 

Mr.  Dillwyn's  countenance  changed. 

"  Mrs.  Wishart !  "  he  echoed.  "  Mrs.  Wishart  is 
irreproachable. " 

"Certainly,  but  that  does  not  put  a  penny  in 


IN  COUNCIL.  61 

Miss  Lothrop's  pocket,  nor  give  her  position,  nor 
knowledge  of  the  world." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  knowledge  of  the  world  ?  " 
Mr.  Dillwyn  inquired  with  slow  words. 

"  Why !  you  know.  Just  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  the  difference  between  the  raw  and  the  man 
ufactured  article,"  Miss  Julia  answered  laughing. 
She  was  comfortably  conscious  of  being  thoroughly 
"  manufactured  "  herself.  No  crude  ignorances  or 
deficiencies  there. — "The  sort  of  thing  that  makes 
a  person  at  home  and  au  fait  everywhere,  and  in 
all  companies,  and  shuts  out  awkwardnesses  and 
inelegancies. 

"  Does  it  shut  them  out  ?  " 

"Why  of  course!  How  can  you  ask?  What 
else  will  shut  them  out?  All  that  makes  the 
difference  between  a  woman  of  the  world  and 
a  milkmaid." 

"  This  little  girl,  I  understand  then,  is  awkward 
and  inelegant  ?  " 

"She  is  nothing  of  the  kind!"  Tom  burst  out. 
"  Ridiculous !  "  But  Dillwyn  waited  for  Miss  Ju 
lia's  answer. 

"I  cannot  call  her  just  awkward?  said  Mrs. 
Caruthers. 

"  N-o,"  said  Julia,  "  perhaps  not.  She  has  been 
living  with  Mrs.  Wishart,  you  know,  and  has  got 
accustomed  to  a  certain  set  of  things.  She  does 
not  strike  you  unpleasantly  in  society,  seated  at  a 
lunch  table  for  instance;  but  of  course  all  beyond 
the  lunch  table  is  like  London  to  a  Laplander." 


62  NOBODY. 

Tom  flung  himself  out  of  the  room. 

"And  that  is  what  you  are  going  to  Florida 
for?"  pursued  Dillwyn. 

"You  have  guessed  it?  Yes,  indeed.  Do  you 
know,  there  seems  to  be  nothing  else  to  do.  Tom 
is  in  actual  danger.  I  know  he  goes  very  often  to 
Mrs.  Wishart's ;  and  you  know  Tom  is  impressible ; 
and  before  we  know  it  he  might  do  something  he 
would  be  sorry  for.  The  only  thing  is  to  get  him 
away." 

"  I  think  I  will  go  to  Mrs.  Wishart's  too,"  said 
Philip.  "Do  you  think  there  would  be  danger." 

"  I  don't  know ! "  said  Miss  Julia  arching  her 
brows.  "I  never  can  comprehend  why  the  men 
take  such  furies  of  fancies  for  this  girl  or  for  that. 
To  me  they  do  not  seem  so  different.  I  believe 
this  girl  takes  just  because  she  is  not  like  the 
rest  of  what  one  sees  every  day." 

"  That  might  be  a  recommendation.  Did  it  never 
strike  you,  Miss  Julia,  that  there  is  a  certain  de 
gree  of  sameness  in  our  world.  Not  in  nature,  for 
there  the  variety  is  simply  endless;  but  in  our 
ways  of  living.  Here  the  effort  seems  to  be  to 
fall  in  with  one  general  pattern.  Houses  and 
dresses;  and  entertainments,  and  even  the  routine 
of  conversation.  Generally  speaking,  it  is  all  one 
thing." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Julia  with  spirit,  "  when  any 
thing  is  once  recognized  as  the  right  thing,  of 
course,  everybody  wants  to  conform  to  it." 

"  I  have  not  recognized  it  as  the  right  thing." 


IN  COUNCIL.  63 

"What?" 

"This  uniformity." 

"What  would  you  have?  " 

"  I  think  I  would  like  to  see,  for  a  change,  free 
dom  and  individuality.  Why  should  a  woman  with 
sharp  features  dress  her  hair  in  a  manner  that  sets 
off  their  sharpness,  because  her  neighbour  with  a 
classic  head  can  draw  it  severely  about  her  in  close 
bands  and  coils  and  so  only  the  better  shew  its  no 
bility  of  contour?  Why  may  not  a  beautiful  head 
of  hair  be  dressed  flowingly,  because  the  fashion 
favours  the  people  who  have  no  hair  at  all  ?  Why 
may  not  a  plain  dress  set  off  a  fine  figure,  because 
the  mode  is  to  leave  no  unbroken  line  or  sweep-, 
ing  drapery  anywhere  ?  And  I  might  go  on  end 
lessly." 

"I  can't  tell,  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Julia;  "but 
if  one  lives  in  the  world,  it  won't  do  to  defy  the 
world.  And  that  you  know  as  well  as  I." 

"  What  would  happen,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  The  world  would  quietly  drop  you.  Unless  you 
are  a  person  of  importance  enough  to  set  a  new 
fashion." 

"Is  there  not  some  unworthy  bondage  about 
that?" 

"You  can't  help  it,  Philip  Dillwyn,  if  there  is. 
We  have  got  to  take  it  as  it  is ;  and  make  the  best 
of  it." 

"And  this  new  Fate  of  Tom's — this  new  Fancy 
rather, — as  I  understand,  she  is  quite  out  of  the 
world?" 


64  NOBODY. 

"Quite.  Lives  in  a  village  in  New  England 
somewhere,  and  grows  onions." 

"For  market?"  said  Philip  with  a  somewhat 
startled  face. 

"No,  no!"  said  Julia  laughing — "how  could  you 
think  I  meant  that?  No;  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  onions;  but  she  has  lived  among  farmers 
and  sailors  all  her  life,  and  that  is  all  she  knows. 
And  it  is  perfectly  ridiculous,  but  Tom  is  so  smitten 
with  her  that  all  we  can  do  is  to  get  him  away. 
Fancy,  Tom ! " 

"  He  has  got  to  come  back,"  said  Philip  rising. 
"You  had  better  get  somebody  to  take  the  girl 
away." 

"Perhaps  you  will  do  that?"  said  Miss  Julia 
laughing. 

"  I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Dillwyn  as  he  took  leave. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HAPPINESS. 

T)HILIP  kept  his  promise.  Thinking  however, 
1  he  soon  found,  did  not  amount  to  much  till 
he  had  seen  more;  and  he  went  a  few  days  after  to 
Mrs.  Wishart's  house. 

It  was  afternoon.  The  sun  was  streaming  in 
from  the  west,  filling  the  sitting  room  with  its 
splendour ;  and  in  the  radiance  of  it  Lois  was  sit 
ting  with  some  work.  She  was  as  unadorned  as 
when  Philip  had  seen  her  the  other  day  in  the  street; 
her  gown  was  of  some  plain  stuff,  plainly  made ; 
she  was  a  very  unfashionable  looking  person.  But 
the  good  figure  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  liked  to  see  was 
there;  the  fair  outlines,  simple  and  graceful,  light 
and  girlish;  and  the  exquisite  hair  caught  the  light 
and  shewed  its  varying,  warm,  bright  tints.  It 
was  massed  up  somehow,  without  the  least  artifi 
ciality,  in  order,  and  yet  lying  loose  and  wavy;  a 
beautiful  combination  which  only  a  few  heads  can 
attain  to. 

There  was  nobody  else  in  the  room ;  and  as  Lois 

(65) 


66  NOBODY. 

rose  to  meet  the  visiter,  he  was  not  flattered  to  see 
that  she  did  not  recognize  him.  Then  the  next 
minute  a  flash  of  light  came  into  her  face. 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure,"  said  Dillwyn.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  were  going  to  ignore  the  fact." 

"  You  gave  us  lunch  the  other  day,"  said  Lois 
smiling.  "Yes,  I  remember.  I  shall  always  re 
member." 

"  You  got  home  comfortably  ?  " 

"0  yes,  after  we  were  so  fortified.  Mrs.  Wishart 
was  quite  exhausted,  before  lunch,  I  mean." 

"This  is  a  pleasant  situation,"  said  Philip,  go 
ing  a  step  nearer  the  window. 

"  Yes,  very !  I  enjoy  those  rocks  very  much." 

"  You  have  no  rocks  at  home  ?  " 

"No  rocks,"  said  Lois;  "plenty  of  rock,  or  stone; 
but  it  comes  up  out  of  the  ground  just  enough  to 
make  trouble,  not  to  give  pleasure.  The  country 
is  all  level." 

"  And  you  enjoy  the  variety  ?  " 

"  0  not  because  it  is  variety.  But  I  have  been 
nowhere  and  have  seen  nothing  in  my  life." 

"  So  the  world  is  a  great  unopened  book  to  you?" 
said  Philip  with  a  smile  regarding  her. 

"  It  will  always  be  that,  I  think,"  Lois  replied, 
shaking  her  head. 

"  Why'should  it  ?  " 

"  I  live  at  Shampuashuh." 

"  What  then  ?     Here  you  are  in  New  York." 

"  Yes,  wonderfully.     But  I  am  going  home  again. " 

"Not  soon?" 


HAPPINESS.  67 

"  Very  soon.  It  will  be  time  to  begin  to  make 
garden  in  a  few  days." 

"  Can  the  garden  not  be  made  without  you  ?  " 

"  Not  very  well ;  for  nobody  knows,  except  me, 
just  where  things  were  planted  last  year." 

"And  is  that  important?" 

"Very  important."  Lois  smiled  at  his  simpli 
city.  "Because,  many  things  must  be  changed. 
They  must  not  be  planted  where  they  were  last 
year." 

"Why  not?" 

"They  would  not  do  so  well.  They  have  all 
to  shift  about,  like  Puss-in-the-corner ;  and  it  is 
puzzling.  The  peas  must  go  where  the  corn  or 
the  potatoes  went;  and  the  corn  must  find  another 
place,  and  so  on." 

"  And  you  are  the  only  one  who  keep  a  map  of 
the  garden  in  your  head?" 

"  Not  in  my  head,"  said  Lois  smiling.  "  I  keep 
it  in  my  drawer." 

"  Ah !  That  is  being  more  systematic  than  I 
gave  you  credit  for." 

"  But  you  cannot  do  anything  with  a  garden  if 
you  have  not  system." 

"  Nor  with  anything  else !  But  where  did  you 
learn  that?" 

"  In  the  garden,  I  suppose,"  said  Lois  simply. 

She  talked  frankly  and  quietly.  Mr.  Dillwyn 
could  see  by  her  manner,  he  thought,  that  she 
would  be  glad  if  Mrs.  Wishart  would  come  in  and 
take  him  off  her  hands;  but  there  was  no  awk- 


68  NOBODY. 

wardness  or  ungracefulness  or  unreadiness.  In 
fact,  it  was  the  grace  of  the  girl  that  struck  him, 
not  her  want  of  it.  Then  she  was  so  very  lovely. 
A  quiet  little  figure,  in  her  very  plain  dress ;  but  the 
features  were  exceedingly  fair,  the  clear  skin  was 
as  pure  as  a  pearl,  the  head  with  its  crown  of  soft 
bright  hair  might  have  belonged  to  one  of  the  Graces. 
More  than  all,  was  the  very  rare  expression  and 
air  of  the  face.  That  Philip  could  not  read;  he 
could  not  decide  what  gave  the  girl  her  special 
beauty.  Something  in  the  mind  or  soul  of  her,  he 
was  sure;  and  he  longed  to  get  at  it  and  find  out 
what  it  was. 

She  is  not  commonplace,  he  said  to  himself, 
while  he  was  talking  something  else  to  her; — but 
it  is  more  than  being  not  commonplace.  She  is 
very  pure;  but  I  have  seen  other  pure  faces.  It 
is  not  that  she  is  a  Madonna;  this  is  no  creature 

".  .  .  .  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 

But  what  "daily  food"  for  human  nature  she 
would  be!  She  is  a  lofty  creature;  yet  she  is  a 
half  timid  country  girl ;  and  I  suppose  she  does  not 
know  much  beyond  her  garden.  Yes,  probably 
Mrs.  Caruthers  was  right;  she  would  not  do  for 
Tom.  Tom  is  not  a  quarter  good  enough  for  her ! 
She  is  a  little  country  girl,  and  she  does  not  know 
much ;  and  yet — happy  will  be  the  man  to  whom 
she  will  give  a  free  kiss  of  those  wise,  sweet  lips ! 


HAPPINESS.  69 

With  these  somewhat  contradictory  thoughts 
running  through  his  mind,  Mr.  Dillwyn  set  him 
self  seriously  to  entertain  Lois.  As  she  had  never 
travelled,  he  told  her  of  things  he  had  seen — and 
things  he.  had  known  without  seeing — in  his  own 
many  journeyings  about  the  world.  Presently  Lois 
dropped  her  work  out  of  her  hands,  forgot  it,  and 
turned  upon  Mr.  Dillwyn  a  pair  of  eager,  intelligent 
eyes,  which  it  was  a  pleasure  to  talk  to.  He  be 
came  absorbed  in  his  turn,  and  equally;  ministering 
to  the  attention  and  curiosity  and  power  of  im 
agination  he  had  aroused.  What  listeners  her 
eyes  were !  and  how  quick  to  receive  and  keen 
to  pass  judgement  was  the  intelligence  behind 
them.  It  surprised  him;  however  its  responses 
were  mainly  given  through  the  eyes.  In  vain  he 
tried  to  get  a  fair  share  of  words  from  her  too; 
sought  to  draw  her  out.  Lois  was  not  afraid  to 
speak;  and  yet,  for  sheer  modesty  and  simpleness, 
that  supposed  her  words  incapable  of  giving  pleas 
ure  and  would  not  speak  them  as  a  matter  of  con 
ventionality,  she  said  very  few.  At  last  Philip 
made  a  determined  effort  to  draw  her  out. 

"  I  have  told  you  now  about  my  home,"  he 
said.  "  What  is  yours  like  ? "  And  his  manner 
said,  I  am  going  to  stop  and  you  are  going  to 
begin. 

"There  is  nothing  striking  about  it,  I  think," 
said  Lois. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  so,  just  because  it  is  fa 
miliar  to  you." 


70  NOBODY. 

"No,  it  is  because  there  is  really  not  much  to 
tell  about  it.  There  are  just  level  farm  fields ;  and 
the  river,  and  the  Sound." 

"The  river?" 

"The  Connecticut." 

"  0  that  is  where  you  are,  is  it  ?  And  are  you 
near  the  river  ?  " 

"Not  very  near.  About  as  near  the  river  on 
one  side  as  we  are  to  the  Sound  on  the  other; 
either  of  them  is  a  mile  and  more  away." 

"  You  wish  they  were  nearer  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Lois;  "I  don't  think  I  do;  there  is 
always  the  pleasure  of  going  to  them." 

"Then  you  should  wish  them  further.  A  mile 
is  a  short  drive." 

"0,  we  do  not  drive  much.  We  walk  to  the 
shore  often,  and  sometimes  to  the  river." 

"  You  like  the  large  water  so  much  the  best  ?  " 

"I  think  I  like  it  best,"  said  Lois  laughing  a 
little;  "but  we  go  for  clams." 

"  Can  you  get  them  yourself?  " 

"  Certainly !  It  is  great  fun.  While  you  go  to 
drive  in  the  Park,  we  go  to  dig  clams.  And  I 
think  we  have  the  best  of  it  too,  for  a  stand-by." 

"Do  tell  me  about  the  clams." 

"  Do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"I  suppose  I  do.  I  do  not  know  them.  What 
are  they  ?  the  usual  little  soup  fish  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  soup  fish.  0  no !  not 
those;  they  are  not  the  sort  Mrs.  Wishart  has 
sometimes.  These  are  long;  ours  in  the  Sound,  I 


HAPPINESS.  71 

mean;  lotigisli  and  blackish;  and  do  not  taste  like 
the  clams  you  have  here." 

"  Better,  I  hope  ?  " 

"A  great  deal  better.  There  is  nothing  much 
pleasanter  than  a  dish  of  long  clams  that  you  have 
dug  yourself.  At  least  we  think  so." 

"  Because  you  have  got  them  yourself! " 

"No;  but  I  suppose  that  helps." 

"So  you  get  them  by  digging?" 

"Yes.  It  is  funny  work.  The  clams  are  at  the 
edge  of  the  water,  where  the  rushes  grow,  in  the 
mud.  We  go  for  them  when  the  tide  is  out.  Then, 
in  the  blue  mud  you  see  quantities  of  small  holes  as 
big  as  a  lead  pencil  would  make;  those  are  th*e 
clam  holes." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  Then  we  dig  for  them ;  dig  with  a  hoe ;  and  you 
must  dig  very  fast  or  the  clam  will  get  away  from 
you.  Then,  if  you  get  pretty  near  him  he  spits  at 
you." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  a  harmless  remonstrance." 

"  It  may  come  in  your  face." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  laughed  a  little,  looking  at  this  fair 
creature  who  was  talking  to  him,  and  finding  it 
hard  to  imagine  her  among  the  rushes  racing  with 
a  long  clam. 

"  It  is  wet  ground  I  suppose,  where  you  find  the 
clams  ?  " 

"  0  yes.  One  must  take  off  shoes  and  stockings 
and  go  barefoot.  But  the  %mud  is  warm,  and  it  is 
pleasant  enough." 


72  NOBODY. 

"The  clams  must  be  good,  to  reward  the  trouble." 

"We  think  it  is  as  pleasant  to  get  them  as  to 
eat  them." 

"  I  believe  you  remarked,  this  sport  is  your  sub 
stitute  for  our  Central  Park  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  sort  of  a  substitute." 

"  And,  in  the  comparison,  you  think  you  are  the 
gainers  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  compare  the  two  things,"  said  Lois; 
"only  that  both  are  ways  of  seeking  pleasure." 

"So  you  say;  and  I  wanted  your  comparative 
estimate  of  the  two  ways." 

"Central  Park  is  new  to  me,  you  know,"  said 
Lois;  "and  I  am  very  fond  of  riding, — driving, 
Mrs.  Wishart  says  I  ought  to  call  it;  the  scene  is 
like  fairyland  to  me.  But  I  do  not  think  it  is 
better  fun,  really,  than  going  after  clams.  And  the 
people  do  not  seem  to  enjoy  it  a  quarter  as  much." 

"  The  people  whom  you  see  driving  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  do  not  look  as  if  they  were  taking 
much  pleasure.  Most  of  them." 

"  Pray  why  should  they  go,  if  they  do  not  find 
pleasure  in  it  ?  " 

Lois  looked  at  her  questioner. 

"  You  can  tell,  better  than  I,  Mr.  Dillwyn.  For 
the  same  reasons,  I  suppose,  that  they  do  other 
things." 

"  Pardon  me, — what  things  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  all  the  things  they  do  for  pleasure,  or 
that  are  supposed  to  be  for  pleasure.  Parties — lun 
cheon  parties,  and  dinners,  and — "  Lois  hesitated. 


HAPPINESS.  73 

"  Supposed  to  be  for  pleasure  !  "  Philip  echoed  the 
words.  "  Excuse  me — but  what  makes  you  think 
they  do  not  gain  their  end  ?  " 

"  People  do  not  look  really  happy,"  said  Lois. 
"  They  do  not  seem  to  me  as  if  they  really  enjoyed 
what  they  were  doing." 

"  You  are  a  nice  observer !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  " 

"  Pray,  at — I  forget  the  name — your  home  in  the 
country,  are  the  people  more  happily  constituted  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  Not  more  happily  con 
stituted;  but  I  think  they  live  more  natural  lives." 

"Instance!"  said  Philip,  looking  curious. 

"  Well,"  said  Lois  laughing  and  colouring,  "  I  do 
not  think  they  do  things  unless  they  want  to. 
They  do  not  ask  people  unless  they  want  to  see 
them;  and  when  they  do  make  a  party,  everybody 
has  a  good  time.  It  is  not  brilliant,  or  splendid,  or 
wonderful,  like  parties  here;  but  yet  I  think  it  is 
more  really  what  it  is  meant  to  be." 

"  And  here  you  think  things  are  not  what  they 
are  meant  to  be  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  am  mistaken,"  said  Lois  modestly. 
"I  have  seen  so  little." 

"You  are  not  mistaken  in  your  general  view. 
It  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  there  are  no 
exceptions." 

"  0  I  do  not  think  that." 

"  But  it  is  matter  of  astonishment  to  me,  how  you 
have  so  soon  acquired  such  keen  discernment.  Is 
it  that  you  do  not  enjoy  these  occasions  yourself  ?  " 


74  NOBODY. 

"01  enjoy  them  intensely,"  said  Lois  smiling. 
"Sometimes  I  think  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  com 
pany  that  does;  but  /enjoy  them.1' 

"  By  the  power  of  what  secret  talisman  ?  " 

"I  don't  know; — being  happy,  I  suppose,1' said 
Lois  shyly. 

"You  are  speaking  seriously;  and  therefore  you 
are  touching  the  greatest  question  of  human  life. 
Can  you  say  of  yourself  that  you  are  truly  happy  ?" 

Lois  met  his  eyes  in  a  little  wonderment  at  this 
questioning,  and  answered  a  plain  "yes." 

"But,  to  be  happy,  with  me,  means,  to  be  inde 
pendent  of  circumstances.  I  do  not  call  him  happy, 
whose  happiness  is  gone  if  the  east  wind  blow,  or 
a  party  miscarry,  or  a  bank  break;  even  though 
it  were  the  bank  in  which  his  property  is  in 
volved." 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Lois  gravely. 

"And — pray  forgive  me  for  asking! — but,  are 
you  happy  in  this  exclusive  sense  ?  " 

"I  have  no  property  in  a  bank,"  said  Lois  smil 
ing  again;  "I  have  not  been  tried  that  way;  but 
I  suppose  it  may  do  as  well  to  have  no  property 
anywhere.  Yes,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"But  that  is  equal  to  having  the  philosopher's 
stone!"  cried  Dillwyn. 

"  What  is  the  philosopher's  stone  ?" 

"  The  wise  men  of  old  time  made  themselves  very 
busy  in  the  search  for  some  substance,  or  composi 
tion,  which  would  turn  other  substances  to  gold. 
Looking  upon  gold  as  the  source  and  sum  of  all  felic- 


HAPPINESS.  75 

ity,  they  spent  endless  pains  and  countless  time  upon 
the  search  for  this  transmuting  substance.  They 
thought,  if  they  could  get  gold  enough,  they  would 
be  happy.  Sometimes  some  one  of  them  fancied  he 
was  just  upon  the  point  of  making  the  immortal 
discovery;  but  there  he  always  broke  down." 

"They  were  looking  in  the  wrong  place,"  said 
Lois  thoughtfully. 

"Is  there  a  right  place  to  look  then?" 

Lois  smiled.  It  was  a  smile  that  struck  Philip 
very  much,  for  its  calm  and  confident  sweetness; 
yes,  more  than  that;  for  its  gladness.  She  was 
not  in  haste  to  answer;  apparently  she  felt  some 
difficulty. 

"  I  do  not  think  gold  ever  made  anybody  happy," 
she  said  at  length. 

"That  is  what  moralists  tell  us.  But  after  all, 
Miss  Lothrop,  money  is  the  means  to  everything 
else  in  this  world?" 

"  Not  to  happiness,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  is,  then  ?  They  say — and  perhaps 
you  will  say — that  friendships  and  affections  can 
do  more;  but  I  assure  you,  where  there  are  not  the 
means  to  stave  off  grinding  toil  or  crushing  poverty, 
affections  wither;  or  if  they  do  not  quite  wither, 
they  bear  no  golden  fruit  of  happiness.  On  the 
contrary,  they  offer  vulnerable  spots  to  the  stings 
of  pain." 

"  Money  can  do  a  great  deal — "  said  Lois. 

"  What  can  do  more?" 

Lois  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  ques- 


76  NOBODY. 

tioner  inquiringly.  Did  he  know  no  better  than 
that? 

"  With  money,  one  can  do  everything,"  he  went 
on,  though  struck  by  her  expression. 

"  Yes — "  said  Lois ;  "  and  yet — all  that  never  sat 
isfied  anybody." 

"Satisfied!"  cried  Philip.  "Satisfied  is  a  very 
large  word.  Who  is  satisfied?" 

Lois  glanced  up  again,  mutely. 

"  If  I  dared  venture  to  say  so — you  look,  Miss 
Lothrop,  you  absolutely  look,  as  if  you  were;  and 
yet  it  is  impossible." 

"Why  is  it  impossible ?" 

"Because  it  is  what  all  the  generations  of  men 
have  been  trying  for,  ever  since  the  world  began ; 
and  none  of  them  ever  found  it." 

"  Not  if  they  looked  for  it  in  their  money  bags," 
said  Lois.  "  It  was  never  found  there." 

"Was  it  ever  found  anywhere?" 

"  Why  yes  ! " 

"  Pray  tell  me  where,  that  I  may  have  it  too ! " 

The  girl's  cheeks  flushed ;  and  what  was  very  odd 
to  Philip,  her  eyes,  he  was  sure,  had  grown  moist; 
but  the  lids  fell  over  them,  and  he  could  not  see  as 
well  as  he  wished.  What  a  lovely  face  it  was,  he 
thought,  in  this  its  mood  of  stirred  gravity. 

"Do  you  ever  read  the  Bible,  Mr.  Dillwyn?" 

The  question  occasioned  him  a  kind  of  revulsion. 
The  Bible !  was  that  to  be  brought  upon  his  head  ? 
A  confused  notion  of  organ-song,  the  solemnity  of 
a  still  house,  a  white  surplice,  and  words  in  meas- 


HAPPINESS.  77 

ured  cadence,  came  over  him.  Nothing  in  that 
connection  had  ever  given  him  the  idea  of  being 
satisfied.  But  Lois's  question — 

"The  Bible?"  he  repeated.  "May  I  ask,  why 
you  ask  ?  " 

"I  thought  you  did  not  know  something  that  is 
in  it." 

"  Very  possibly.  It  is  the  business  of  clergymen, 
isn't  it,  to  tell  us  what  is  in  it?  That  is  what  they 
are  paid  for.  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  a  person  in  it,  mentioned  in 
it,  I  mean, — who  said  just  what  you  said  a  minute 
ago." 

"  What  was  that  ?     And  who  was  that  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  poor  woman  who  once  held  a  long  talk 
with  the  Lord  Jesus  as  he  was  resting  beside  a 
well.  She  had  come  to  draw  water,  and  Jesus  asked 
her  for  some;  and  then  he  told  her  that  whoever 
drank  of  that  water  would  thirst  again — as  she 
knew;  but  whoever  should  drink  of  the  water  that 
he  would  give,  should  never  thirst.  I  was  telling 
you  of  that  water,  Mr.  Dillwyn.  And  the  woman 
answered  just  what  you  answered — *  Give  me  this 
water,  that  I  thirst  not,  neither  come  hither  to 
draw.'" 

"Did  she  get  it?" 

"  I  think  she  did." 

"You  mean,  something  that  satisfied  her,  and 
would  satisfy  me?" 

"It  satisfies  every  one  who  drinks  of  it,"  said 
Lois. 


78  NOBODY. 

"  But  you  know,  I  do  not  in  the  least  understand 
you." 

The  girl  rose  up  and  fetched  a  Bible  which  lay 
upon  a  distant  table.  Philip  looked  at  the  book  a61- 
she  brought  it  near;  no  volume  of  Mrs.  Wishart's, 
he  was  sure.  Lois  had  had  her  own  Bible  with  her 
in  the  drawing  room.  She  must  be  one  of  the  de 
vout  kind.  He  was  sorry.  He  believed  they  were 
a  narrow  and  prejudiced  sort  of  people,  given  to 
laying  down  the  law  and  erecting  barricades  across 
other  people's  paths.  He  was  sorry  this  fair  girl 
was  one  of  them.  But  she  was  a  lovely  specimen. 
Could  she  unlearn  these  ways,  perhaps  ?  But  now, 
what  was  she  going  to  bring  forth  to  him  out  of  the 
Bible?  He  watched  the  fingers  that  turned  the 
leaves;  pretty  fingers  enough,  and  delicate,  but  not 
very  white.  Gardening  probably  was  not  conducive 
to  the  blanching  of  a  lady's  hand.  It  was  a  pity. 
She  found  her  place  so  soon  that  he  had  little  time 
to  think  his  regrets. 

"  You  allowed  that  nobody  is  satisfied,  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn,"  said  Lois  then.  "See  if  you  understand 
this." 

" '  Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the 
waters;  and  he  that  hath  no  money;  come  ye,  buy 
and  eat;  yea  come,  buy  wine  and  milk  without 
money  and  without  price.  Wherefore  do  ye  spend 
money  for  that  which  is  not  bread  ?  and  your  labour 
for  that  which  satisfieth  not?  hearken  diligently 
unto  me,  and  eat  ye  that  which  is  good,  and  let 
your  soul  delight  itself  in  fatness.' " 


HAPPINESS.  79 

Lois  closed  her  book. 

"Who  says  that?"  Philip  enquired. 

"  God  himself,  by  his  messenger." 

"  And  to  whom  ?  " 

"  I  think,  just  now,  the  words  come  to  you,  Mr. 
Dillwyn."  Lois  said  this  with  a  manner  and  look 
of  such  simplicity,  that  Philip  was  not  even  re 
minded  of  the  class  of  monitors  he  had  in  his  mind 
assigned  her  with.  It  was  absolute  simple  matter 
of  fact ;  she  meant  business. 

"  May  I  look  at  it  ?  "  he  said. 

She  found  the  page  again,  and  he  considered  it. 
Then  as  he  gave  it  back,  remarked, 

"  This  does  not  tell  me  yet  what  this  satisfying 
food  is  ?  " 

"  No,  that  you  can  know  only  by  experience." 

"  How  is  the  experience  to  be  obtained  ?  " 

Again  Lois  found  the  words  in  her  book  and 
shewed  them  to  him.  "  '  Whosoever  drinketh  of 
the  water  that  I  shall  give  him ' — and  again,  above, 
'If  thou  knewest  the  gift  of  God,  and  who  it  is 
that  saith  to  thee,  Give  me  to  drink,  thou  wouldest 
have  asked  of  him,  and  he  ivould  have  given  thee 
living  water.'  Christ  gives  it,  and  he  must  be 
asked  for  it." 

"And  then — ?"  said  Philip. 

" Then,  you  would  be  satisfied" 

"You  think  it?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"  It  takes  a  great  deal  to  satisfy  a  man !  " 

"Not  more  than  it  does  for  a  woman." 


80  NOBODY. 

"And  you  are  satisfied?"  he  asked  searchingly. 

But  Lois  smiled  as  she  gave  her  answer;  and 
it  was  an  odd  and  very  inconsistent  thing  that 
Philip  should  be  disposed  to  quarrel  with  her  for 
that  smile.  I  think  he  wished  she  were  not  satis 
fied.  It  was  very  absurd,  but  he  did  not  reason 
about  it;  he  only  felt  annoyed. 

"Well,  Miss  Lothrop,"  he  said  as  he  rose,  "I 
shall  never  forget  this  conversation.  I  am  very 
glad  no  one  came  in  to  interrupt  it." 

Lois  had  no  phrases  of  society  ready,  and  re 
plied  nothing. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  WORTH   OF  THINGS. 

MR.  DILLWYN  walked  away  from  Mrs.  Wish- 
art's  in  a  discontented  mood  which  was  not 
usual  with  him.  He  felt  almost  annoyed  with 
something;  yet  did  not  quite  know  what,  and  he 
did  not  stop  to  analyse  the  feeling.  He  walked 
away,  wondering  at  himself  for  being  so  discom 
posed,  and  pondering  with  sufficient  distinctness 
one  or  two  questions  which  stood  out  from  the 
discomposure. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  gone  through  all  the 
usual  routine  of  education  and  experience  common 
to  those  who  belong  to  the  upper  class  of  society 
and  can  boast  of  a  good  name  and  family.  He 
had  lived  his  college  life;  he  had  travelled;  he 
knew  the  principal  cities  of  his  own  country,  and 
many  in  other  lands,  with  sufficient  familiarity. 
Speaking  generally,  he  had  seen  everything,  and 
knew  everybody.  He  had  ceased  to  be  surprised 
at  anything,  or  to  expect  much  from  the  world 
beyond  what  his  own  efforts  and  talents  could 
procure  him.  His  connections  and  associations  had 
been  .always  with  good  society  and  with  the  old 

(81) 


82  NOBODY. 

and  established  portions  of  it;  but  he  had  come 
into  possession  of  his  property  not  so  very  long 
ago,  and  the  pleasure  of  that  was  not  yet  worn  off. 
He  was  a  man  who  thought  himself  happy,  and 
certainly  possessed  a  very  high  place  in  the  esteem 
of  those  who  knew  him ;  being  educated,  travelled, 
clever,  and  of  noble  character,  and  withal  rich.  It 
was  the  oddest  thing  for  Philip  to  walk  as  he 
walked  now,  musingly,  with  measured  steps,  and 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  There  was  a  most 
strange  sense  of  uneasiness  upon  him. 

The  image  of  Lois  busied  him  constantly.  It 
was  such  a  lovely  image.  But  he  had  seen  hun 
dreds  of  handsomer  women,  he  told  himself.  Had 
he?  Yes,  he  thought  so.  Yet  not  one,  not  one, 
of  them  all,  had  made  as  much  impression  upon 
him.  It  was  inconvenient ;  and  why  was  it  incon 
venient?  Something  about  her  bewitched  him. 
Yes,  he  had  seen  handsomer  women;  but  more  or 
less  they  were  all  of  a  certain  pattern ;  not  alike  in 
feature,  or  name,  or  place,  or  style,  yet  neverthe 
less  all  belonging  to  the  general  sisterhood  of  what 
is  called  the  world.  And  this  girl  was  different. 
How  different?  She  was  uneducated,  but  that 
could  not  give  a  charm;  though  Philip  thereby 
reflected  that  there  was  a  certain  charm  in  variety, 
and  this  made  variety.  She  was  unaccustomed  to 
the  great  world  and  its  ways;  there  could  be  no 
charm  in  that,  for  he  liked  the  utmost  elegance  of 
the  best  breeding.  Here  he  fetched  himself  up 
again.  Lois  was  not  in  the  least  ill-bred.  Noth- 


THE  WORTH  OF  THINGS.  83 

ing  of  the  kind.  She  was  utterly  and  truly  refined, 
in  every  look  and  word  and  movement  shewing* 
that  she  was  so.  Yet  she  had  no  "manner,"  as 
Mrs.  Car  at  hers  would  have  expressed  it.  No,  she 
had  not.  She  had  no  trained  and  inevitable  way 
of  speaking  and  looking;  her  way  was  her  own, 
and  sprang  naturally  from  the  truth  of  her  thought 
or  feeling  at  the  moment.  Therefore  it  could  never 
be  counted  upon,  and  gave  one  the  constant  pleasure 
of  surprises.  Yes,  Philip  concluded  that  this  was 
one  point  of  interest  about  her.  She  had  not 
learned  how  to  hide  herself,  and  the  manner  of 
her  revelations  was  a  continual  refreshing  variety, 
inasmuch  as  what  she  had  to  reveal  was  only  fair 
and  delicate  and  true.  But  what  made  the  girl 
so  provokingly  happy?  so  secure  in  her  content 
ment?  Mr.  Dillwyn  thought  himself  a  happy 
man;  content  with  himself  and  with  life;  yet  life 
had  reached  something  too  like  a  dead  level,  and 
himself,  he  was  conscious,  led  a  purposeless  sort  of 
existence.  What  purpose  indeed  was  there  to 
live  for  ?  But  this  little  girl — Philip  recalled  the 
bright,  soft,  clear  expression  of  eye  with  which 
she  had  looked  at  him ;  the  very  sweet  curves  of 
happy  consciousness  about  her  lips;  the  confident 
bearing  with  which  she  had  spoken,  as  one  who 
had  found  a  treasure  which,  as  she  said,  satisfied 
her.  But  it  cannot !  said  Philip  to  himself.  It  is 
that  she  is  pure  and  sweet,  and  takes  happiness 
like  a  baby,  sucking  in  what  seems  to  her  the 
pure  milk  of  existence.  It  is  true,  the  remembered 


84  NOBODY. 

expression  of  Lois's  features  did  not  quite  agree 
with  this  explanation;  pure  and  sweet,  no  doubt, 
but  also  grave  and  high,  and  sometimes  evidencing 
a  keen  intellectual  perception  and  wisdom.  Not 
just  like  a  baby ;  and  he  found  he  could  not  dis 
miss  the  matter  so.  What  made  her  then  so  hap 
py?  Philip  could  not  remember  ever  seeing  a 
grown  person  who  seemed  so  happy;  whose  happi 
ness  seemed  to  rest  on  such  a  steady  foundation. 
Can  she  be  in  love  ?  thought  Dillwyn;  and  the  idea 
gave  him  a  most  unreasonable  thrill  of  displeasure. 
For  a  moment  only ;  then  his  reason  told  him  that 
the  look  in  Lois's  face  was  not  like  that.  It  was 
not  the  brilliance  of  ecstasy,  it  was  the  sunshine 
of  deep  and  fixed  content.  Why  in  the  world 
should  Mr.  Dillwyn  wish  that  Lois  were  not  so 
content?  so  beyond  what  he  or  anybody  could 
give  her?  And  having  got  to  this  point,  Mr. 
Dillwyn  pulled  himself  up  again.  What  business 
was  it  of  his,  the  particular  spring  of  happiness 
she  had  found  to  drink  of?  and  if  it  quenched 
her  thirst,  as  she  said  it  did,  why  should  he  be 
anything  but  glad  of  it  ?  Why,  even  if  Lois  were 
happy  in  some  new-found  human  treasure,  should 
it  move  him,  Philip  Dillwyn,  with  discomfort? 
Was  it  possible  that  he  too  could  be  following  in 
those  steps  of  Tom  Caruthers,  from  which  Tom's 
mother  was  at  such  pains  to  divert  her  son  ? 
Philip  began  to  see  where  he  stood.  Could  it  be  ? 
— and  what  if? 

He  studied  the  question  now  with  a  clear  view 


THE  WORTH  OF  THINGS.  85 

of  its  bearings.  He  had  got  out  of  a  fog.  Lois 
was  all  he  had  thought  of  her.  Would  she  do  for 
a  wife  for  him  ?  Uneducated — inexperienced — not 
agreed  with  the  habits  of  the  world — wonted  to  very 
different  habits  and  society — with  no  family  to  give 
weight  to  her  name  and  honour  to  his  choice, — all 
that  Philip  pondered;  and  on  the  other  side,  the 
loveliness,  the  freshness,  the  intellect,  the  character, 
and  the  refinement,  which  were  undoubted.  He 
pondered  and  pondered.  A  girl  who  was  nobody, 
and  whom  society  would  look  upon  as  an  intruder;  a 
girl  who  had  had  no  advantages  of  education — how 
she  could  express  herself  so  well  and  so  intelligently 
Philip  could  not  conceive,  but  the  fact  was  there; 
Lois  had  had  no  education  beyond  the  most  simple 
training  of  a  school  in  the  country ; — would  it  do  ? 
He  turned  it  all  over  and  over,  and  shook  his  head. 
It  would  be  too  daring  an  experiment;  it  would  not 
be  wise;  it  would  not  do;  he  must  give  it  up,  all 
thought  of  such  a  thing;  and  well  that  he  had  come 
to  handle  the  question  so  early,  as  else  he  might — 
he  might — have  got  so  entangled  that  he  could 
not  save  himself.  Poor  Tom  !  But  Philip  had  no 
mother  to  interpose  to  save  him;  and  his  sister  was 
not  at  hand.  He  went  thinking  about  all  this  the 
whole  way  back  to  his  hotel ;  thinking,  and  shaking 
his  head  at  it.  No,  this  kind  of  thing  was  for  a 
boy  to  do,  not  for  a  man  who  knew  the  world. 
And  yet,  the  image  of  Lois  worried  him. 

I  believe,  he  said  to  himself,  I  had  better  not  see 
the  little  witch  again. 


86  NOBODY. 

Meanwhile  he  was  not  going  to  have  much  op 
portunity.  Mrs.  Wisliart  came  home  a  little  while 
after  Philip  had  gone.  Lois  was  stitching  by  the 
last  fading  light. 

"  Do  stop,  my  dear !  you  will  put  your  eyes  out. 
Stop,  and  let  us  have  tea.  Has  anybody  been 
here  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dillwyn  came.  He  went  away  hardly  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

"  Mr.  Dillwyn  !  Sorry  I  missed  him.  But  he  will 
come  again.  I  met  Tom  Caruthers;  he  is  mourn 
ing  about  this  going  with  his  mother  to  Florida." 

"What  are  they  going  for?"  asked  Lois. 

"  To  escape  the  March  winds,  he  says." 

"  Who  ?  Mr.  Caruthers  ?  He  does  not  look  deli 
cate." 

Mrs.  Wishart  laughed.  "Not  very!  And  his 
mother  don't  either,  does  she  ?  But,  my  dear,  peo 
ple  are  weak  in  different  spots ;  it  isn't  always  in 
their  lungs." 

"Are  there  no  March  winds  in  Florida?" 

"Not  where  they  are  going.  It  is  all  sunshine 
and  oranges — and  orange  blossoms.  But  Tom  is 
not  delighted  with  the  prospect.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  young  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  very  handsome  man." 

"  Is  he  not?  But  I  did  not  mean  that.  Of  course 
you  have  eyes.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  have 
judgment." 

"I  have  not  seen  much  of  Mr.  Caruthers  to 
judge  by." 


THE  WORTH  OF  THINGS.  87 

"No.  Take  what  you  have  seen,  and  make  the 
most  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  judgment,"  said  Lois. 
"  About  people,  I  mean,  and  men  especially.  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  New  York  people,  besides." 

"  Are  they  different  from  Shampuashuh  people  ?  " 

"0  very." 

"How?" 

"  Miss  Caruthers  asked  me  the  same  thing,"  said 
Lois  smiling.  "  I  suppose  at  bottom  all  people  are 
alike ;  indeed  I  know  they  are.  But  in  the  country 
I  think  they  shew  out  more." 

"  Less  disguise  about  them? " 

"I  think  so." 

*'  My  dear,  are  we  such  a  set  of  masqueraders  in 
your  eyes?" 

"No—"  said  Lois;  "I  did  not  mean  that." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Philip  Dillwyn?  Com 
pare  him  with  young  Caruthers." 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Lois.  "  Mr.  Dillwyn  strikes  me 
as  a  man  who  knows  everything  there  is  in  all  the 
world." 

"And  Tom,  you  think,  does  not?" 

"Not  so  much,"  said  Lois  hesitating;  "at  least  he 
does  not  impress  me  so." 

"You  are  more  impressed  with  Mr.  Dillwyn?" 

"In  what  way?  "said  Lois  simply.  "I  am  im 
pressed  with  the  sense  of  my  own  ignorance.  I 
should  be  oppressed  by  it,  if  it  was  my  fault." 

"  Now  you  speak  like  a  sensible  girl,  as  you  are. 
Lois,  men  do  not  care  about  women  knowing  much." 


88  NOBODY. 

"  Sensible  men  must." 

"  They  are  precisely  the  ones  who  do  not.  It  is 
odd  enough,  but  it  is  a  fact.  But  go  on;  which  of 
these  two  do  you  like  best?" 

"  I  have  seen  most  of  Mr.  Caruthers,  you  know. 
But  Mrs.  Wishart,  sensible  men  must  like  sense  in 
other  people?" 

"Yes,  my  dear;  they  do;  unless  when  they  want 
to  marry  the  people;  and  then  their  choice  very 
often  lights  upon  a  fool.  I  have  seen  it  over  and 
over  and  over  again ;  the  clever  one  of  a  family  is 
passed  by  and  a  silly  sister  is  the  one  chosen." 

"Why?" 

"  A  pink  and  white  skin,  or  a  pair  of  black  brows, 
or  perhaps  some  soft  blue  eyes." 

"But  people  cannot  live  upon  a  pair  of  black 
brows,"  said  Lois. 

"They  find  that  out  afterwards." 

"Mr.  Dillwyn  talks  as  if  he  liked  sense,"  said 
Lois.  "  I  mean,  he  talks  about  sensible  things." 

"Do  you  mean  that  Tom  don't,  my  dear?" 

A  slight  colour  rose  on  the  cheek  Mrs.  Wishart 
was  looking  at;  and  Lois  said  somewhat  hastily 
that  she  was  not  comparing. 

"  I  shall  try  to  find  out  what  Tom  talks  to  you 
about,  when  he  comes  back  from  Florida.  I  shall 
scold  him  if  he  indulges  in  nonsense." 

"  It  will  be  neither  sense  nor  nonsense.  I  shall 
be  gone  long  before  then." 

"Gone  whither?" 

"  Home — to  ShampuashuL    I  have  been  wanting 


THE  WORTH  OF  THINGS.  89 

to  speak  to  you  about  it,  Mrs.  Wishart.  I  must  go 
in  a  very  few  days." 

"Nonsense!  1  shall  not  let  you.  I  cannot  get 
along  without  you.  They  don't  want  you  at  home, 
Lois/' 

"  The  garden  does.  And  the  dairy  work  will  be 
more  now  in  a  week  or  two;  there  will  be  more 
milk  to  take  care  of,  and  Madge  will  want  help." 

"Dairy  work!  Lois,  you  must  not  do  dairy  work. 
You  will  spoil  your  hands." 

Lois  laughed.  "Somebody's  hands  must  do  it. 
But  Madge  takes  care  of  the  dairy.  My  hands  see 
to  the  garden." 

"Is  it  necessary?" 

"Why  yes,  ma'am,  certainly,  if  we  would  have 
butter  or  vegetables;  and  you  would  not  counsel 
us  to  do  without  them.  The  two  make  half  the  liv 
ing  of  the  family." 

"And  you  really  cannot  afford  a  servant?" 

"  No,  nor  want  one,"  said  Lois.  "  There  are  three 
of  us,  and  so  we  get  along  nicely." 

"Apropos; — My  dear,  I  am  sorry  that  it  is  so,  but 
must  is  must.  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  is,  that 
it  is  not  necessary  to  tell  all  this  to  other  people." 

Lois  looked  up,  surprised.  "  I  have  told  no  one 
but  you,  Mrs.  Wishart.  0  yes!  I  did  speak  to  Mr. 
Dillwyri  about  it,  I  believe." 

"  Yes.  Well,  there  is  no  occasion,  my  dear.  It 
is  just  as  well  not." 

"Is  it  letter  not?  What  is  the  harm?  Every- 
body  at  Shampuashuh  knows  it." 


90  NOBODY. 

"  Nobody  knows  it  here ;  and  there  is  no  reason 
why  they  should.  I  meant  to  tell  you  this  before." 

"  I  think  I  have  told  nobody  but  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  He  is  safe.    I  only  speak  for  the  future,  my  dear." 

"  I  don't  understand  yet,"  said  Lois  half  laughing. 
"Mrs.  Wishart,  we  are  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear;  you  have  no  occasion." 

"Then  why  should  we  be  ashamed  of  it?"  Lois 
persisted. 

"My  dear,  there  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
Do  not  think  I  mean  that.  Only,  people  here  would 
not  understand  it." 

"How  could  they  misunderstand  it?" 

"  You  do  not  know  the  world,  Lois.  People  have 
peculiar  ways  of  looking  at  things;  and  they  put 
their  own  interpretation  on  things;  and  of  course 
they  often  make  great  blunders.  And  so,  it  is  just 
as  well  to  keep  your  own  private  affairs  to  yourself, 
and  not  give  them  the  opportunity  of  blundering." 

Lois  was  silent  a  little  while. 

"You  mean,"  she  said  then, — "you  think,  that 
some  of  these  people  I  have  been  seeing  here,  would 
think  less  of  me,  if  they  knew  how  we  do  at  home  ?  " 

"  They  might,  my  dear.  People  are  just  so  stupid 
as  that." 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  I  ought  to  let  them  know," 
Lois  said,  half  laughing  again.  "  I  do  not  like  to 
"be  taken  for  what  I  am  not;  and  I  do  not  want 
to  have  anybody's  good  opinion  on  false  grounds." 
Her  colour  rose  a  bit  at  the  same  time. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  nobody's  business.    And  anybody 


THE  WORTH  OF  THINGS.  91 

that  once  knew  you  would  judge  you  for  yourself, 
and  not  upon  any  adventitious  circumstances.  They 
cannot,  in  my  opinion,  think  of  you  too  highly." 

"  I  think  it  is  better  they  should  know  at  once 
that  I  am  a  poor  girl,"  said  Lois.  However,  she 
reflected  privately  that  it  did  not  matter,  as  she 
was  going  away  so  soon.  And  she  remembered 
also  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  not  seemed"  to  think  any 
the  less  of  her  for  what  she  had  told  him.  Did 
Tom  Caruthers  know  ? 

"  But  Lois,  my  dear,  about  your  going —  There 
is  no  garden  work  to  be  done  yet.  It  is  March." 

"  It  will  soon  be  April.  And  the  ground  must 
be  got  ready,  and  potatoes  must  go  in,  and  peas." 

"  Surely  somebody  else  can  stick  in  potatoes  and 
peas." 

"They  would  not  know  where  to  put  them." 

"  Does  it  matter,  where  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  it  does ! "  said  Lois  amused.  "  They 
must  not  go  where  they  were  last  year." 

"Why  not?" 

*'  I  don't  know !  It  seems  that  eveiy  plant  wants 
a  particular  sort  of  food,  and  gets  it,  if  it  can ;  and 
so,  the  place  where  it  grows  is  more  or  less  impov 
erished  and  would  have  less  to  give  it  another  year. 
But  a  different  sort  of  plant  requiring  a  different 
sort  of  food,  would  be  all  right  in  that  place." 

"  Food? "  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "  Do  you  mean  ma 
nure?  you  can  have  that  put  in." 

"  No,  I  do  not  mean  that.  I  mean  something  the 
plant  gets  from  the  soil  itself." 


92  NOBODY. 

"I  do  not  understand!  Well,  my  dear,  write 
them  word  where  the  peas  must  go." 

Lois  laughed  again. 

"  I  hardly  know  myself,  till  I  have  studied  the 
map,"  she  said.  "  I  mean,  the  map  of  the  garden. 
It  is  a  more  difficult  matter  than  you  can  guess,  to 
arrange  all  the  new  arrangement  every  spring;  all 
has  to  be  changed;  and  upon  where  the  peas  go 
depends,  perhaps,  where  the  cabbages  go,  and  the 
corn,  and  the  tomatoes,  and  everything  else.  It  is 
a  matter  for  study." 

" Can't  somebody  else  do  it  for  you?"  Mrs.  Wish- 
art  asked  compassionately. 

"  There  is  no  one  else.  We  have  just  our  three 
selves;  and  all  that  is  done  we  do;  and  the  garden 
is  under  my  management." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  are  wonderful  women ;  that 
is  all  I  have  to  say.  But  Lois,  you  must  pay  me  a 
visit  by  and  by  in  the  summer  time;  I  must  have 
that;  I  shall  go  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals  for  a  while, 
and  I  am  going  to  have  you  there." 

"  If  I  can  be  spared  from  home,  dear  Mrs.  Wish- 
art,  it  would  be  delightful ! " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MRS.    ARMADALE. 

IT  was  a  few  days  later,  but  March  yet,  and  a  keen 
wind  blowing  from  the  sea.  A  raw  day  out  of 
doors ;  so  much  the  more  comfortable  seemed  the 
good  fire,  arid  swept-up  hearth,  and  gentle  warmth 
filling  the  farmhouse  kitchen.  The  farmhouse  was 
not  very  large,  neither  by  consequence  was  the 
kitchen ;  however,  it  was  more  than  ordinarily 
pleasant  to  look  at,  because  it  was  not  a  servants' 
room;  and  so  was  furnished  not  only  for  the  work 
but  also  for  the  habitation  of  the  family,  who  made 
it  in  winter  almost  exclusively  their  abiding  place. 
The  floor  was  covered  with  a  thick,  gay  rag  carpet ; 
a  settee  sofa  looked  inviting  with  its  bright  chintz 
hangings;  rocking  chairs,  well  cushioned,  were  in 
number  and  variety;  and  a  basket  of  work  here 
and  a  pretty  lamp  there  spoke  of  ease  and  quiet  oc 
cupation.  One  person  only  sat  there,  in  the  best  easy 
chair,  at  the  hearth  corner;  beside  her  a  little  table 
with  a  large  book  upon  it  and  a  roll  of  knitting. 
She  was  not  reading  nor  working  just  now;  waiting 

(93) 


94  NOBODY. 

perhaps,  or  thinking,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 
By  the  look  of  the  hands  they  had  done  many  a  job 
of  hard  work  in  their  day;  by  the  look  of  the  face 
and  air  of  the  person  one  could  see  that  the  hard 
work  was  over.  The  hands  were  bony,  thin,  en 
larged  at  the  joints,  so  as  age  and  long  rough  usage 
make  them ;  but  quiet  hands  now;  and  the  face  was 
steady  and  calm,  with  no  haste  or  restlessness  upon 
it  any  more,  if  ever  there  had  been,  but  a  very  sweet 
and  gracious  repose.  It  was  a  hard-featured  coun 
tenance;  it  had  never  been  handsome;  only  the 
beauty  of  sense  and  character  it  had,  and  the  dig 
nity  of  a  well-lived  life.  Something  more  too;  some 
thing  of  a  more  noble  calm  than  even  the  fairest 
retrospect  can  give;  a  more  restful  repose  than 
comes  of  mere  cessation  from  labour;  a  deeper  con 
tent  than  has  its  ground  in  the  actual  present.  She 
was  a  most  reverent  person,  to  see  to.  Just  now 
she  was  waiting  for  something,  and  listening;  for 
her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  door,  and  then  the 
tread  of  swift  feet  coming  down  the  stair,  and  then 
Lois  entered  upon  the  scene;  evidently  fresh  from 
her  journey.  She  had  been  to  her  room  to  lay  by 
her  wrappings  and  change  her  dress;  she  was  in  a 
dark  stuff  gown  now,  with  an  enveloping  white 
apron.  She  came  up  and  kissed  once  more  the  face 
which  had  watched  her  entrance. 

"  You've  been  gone  a  good  while,  Lois !  " 
"Yes,  grandma.     Too  long,  did  you  think?" 
"  I  don'  know,  child.    That  depends  on  what  you 
stayed  for." 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  95 

"  Does  it  ?  Grandma,  I  don't  know  what  I  stayed 
for.  I  suppose,  because  it  was  pleasant." 

"  Pleasanter  than  here  ?  " 

"Grandma,  I  haven't  been  home  long  enough  to 
know.  It  all  looks  and  feels  so  strange  to  me  as 
you  cannot  think !  " 

"What  looks  strange?" 

"Everything!  The  house,  and  the  place,  and 
the  furniture — I  have  been  living  in  such  a  dif 
ferent  world,  till  my  eyes  have  grown  unaccus 
tomed.  You  can't  think  how  odd  it  is." 

"  What  sort  of  a  world  have  you  been  living  in, 
Lois?  Your  letters  didn't  tell."  The  old  lady  spoke 
with  a  certain  serious  doubtfulness,  looking  at  the 
girl  by  her  side. 

"Didn't  they?"  Lois  returned.  "I  suppose  I  did 
not  give  you  the  impression  because  I  had  it  not 
myself.  I  had  got  accustomed  to  that,  you  see;  and 
I  did  not  realize  how  strange  it  was.  I  just  took 
it  as  if  I  had  always  lived  in  it." 

"  What?" 

"  0  grandma,  I  can  never  tell  you  so  that  you 
can  understand!  It  was  like  living  in  the  Arabian 
Nights." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  no  Arabian  Nights." 

"  And  yet  they  were  there,  you  see.  Houses  so 
beautiful,  and  filled  with  such  beautiful  things;  and 
you  know,  grandmother,  I  like  things  to  be  pretty; 
— and  then,  the  ease,  I  suppose.  Mrs.  Wishart's 
servants  go  about  almost  like  fairies;  they  are  hardly 
seen  or  heard,  but  the  work  is  done.  And  you 


96  NOBODY. 

never  have  to  think  about  it;  you  go  out,  and  come 
home  to  find  dinner  ready,  and  capital  dinners  too; 
and  you  sit  reading  or  talking,  and  do  not  know 
how  time  goes,  till  it  is  tea  time;  and  then,  there 
comes  the  tea;  and  so  it  is  in  doors  and  out  of  doors. 
All  that  is  quite  pleasant." 

"And  you  are- sorry  to  be  home  again  !  " 

"No  indeed,  1  am  glad.  I  enjoyed  all  I  have 
been  telling  you  about,  but  I  think  I  enjoyed  it 
quite  long  enough.  It  is  time  for  me  to  be  here. 
Is  the  frost  well  out  of  the  ground  yet?  " 

"  Mr.  Bince  has  been  ploughin'." 

"  Has  he !  I'm  glad."  Then  I'll  put  in  some  peas 
to-morrow.  0  yes!  I  arn  glad  to  be  home,  grand 
ma."  Her  hand  nestled  in  one  of  those  worn,  bony 
ones  affectionately. 

"  Could  you  live  just  right  there,  Lois?" 

"I  tried,  grandma." 

"  Did  all  that  help  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  hindered.  It  might  not  be 
good  for  always;  but  I  was  there  only  for  a  little 
while,  and  I  just  took  the  pleasure  of  it." 

"  Seems  to  me,  you  was  there  a  pretty  long  spell, 
to  be  called  'a  little  while.'  Aint  it  a  dangerous 
kind  o'  pleasure,  Lois?  Didn't  you  never  get 
tempted?" 

"Tempted  to  what,  grandma?" 

"  I  don'  know !     To  want  to  live  easy." 

"Would  that  be  wrong?"  said  Lois,  putting  her 
soft  cheek  alongside  the  withered  one,  so  that  her 
wavy  hair  brushed  it  caressingly.  Perhaps  it  was 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  97 

•unconscious  bribery.    But  Mrs.  Armadale  was  never 
bribed. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  right,  Lois,  if  it  made  you  want 
to  get  out  o'  your  duties." 

UI  think  it  didn't,  grandma.  I'm  all  ready 
for  them.  And  your  dinner  is  the  first  thing. 
Madge  and  Charity — you  say  they  are  gone  to 
New  Haven?" 

"Charity's  tooth  tormented  her  so,  and  Madge 
wanted  to  get  a  bonnet;  and  they  thought  they'd 
make  one  job  of  it.  They  didn't  know  you  was 
comin'  to-day,  and  they  thought  they'd  just  hit  it, 
to  go  before  you  come.  They  won't  be  back  early, 
nother." 

"  What  have  they  left  for  your  dinner  ? "  said 
Lois,  going  to  rummage.  "Grandma,  here's  noth 
ing  at  all ! " 

"An  egg'll  do,  dear.  They  didn't  calkilate  for 
you." 

"  An  egg  will  do  for  me,"  said  Lois  laughing ; 
"but  there's  only  a  crust  of  bread." 

"Madge  calkilated  to  make  tea  biscuits  after 
she  come  home." 

"Then  I'll  do  that  now." 

Lois  stripped  up  the  sleeves  from  her  shapely 
arms,  and  presently  was  very  busy  at  the  great 
kitchen  table,  with  the  board  before  her  covered 
with  white  cakes,  and  the  cutter  and  rolling  pin 
still  at  work  producing  more.  Then  the  fire  was 
made  up  and  the  tin  baker  set  in  front  of  the  blaze, 
charged  with  a  panful  for  baking.  Lois  stripped 


98  NOBODY. 

down  her  sleeves,  and  set  the  table,  cut  ham  and 
fried  it,  fried  eggs,  arid  soon  sat  opposite  Mrs. 
Armadale  pouring  her  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  This  is  cosy !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  nice  to 
have  you  all  alone  for  the  first,  grandma.  What's 
the  news? " 

"Aint  no  news,  child.  Mrs.  Saddler's  been  to 
New  London  for  a  week." 

"  And  I  have  come  home.     Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  I  don't  make  no  count  o'  news,  child.  '  One 
generation  passeth  awa}7,  and  another  generation 
cometh ;  but  the  earth  abideth  for  ever. ' ' 

"  But  one  likes  to  hear  of  the  things  that  change, 
grandma." 

"  Do  'ee  ?  I  like  to  hear  of  the  things  that 
remain." 

"  But  grandma !  the  earth  itself  changes;  at  least 
it  is  as  different  in  different  places  as  anything 
can  be." 

"  Some's  cold,  and  some's  hot,"  observed  the  old 
lady. 

"  It  is  much  more  than  that.  The  trees  are  dif 
ferent,  and  the  fruits  are  different;  and  the  animals; 
and  the  country  is  different,  and  the  buildings,  and 
the  people's  dresses." 

"  The  men  and  women  is  the  same,"  said  the  old 
lady  contentedly. 

"  But  no,  not  even  that,  grandma.  They  are  as 
different  as  they  can  be  and  still  be  men  and 
women." 

" '  As  in  water  face  answereth  to  face,  so  the 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  99 

heart  of  man  to  man.'  Be  the  New  York  folks 
so  queer,  then,  Lois  ?  " 

"  0  no,  not  the  New  York  people ;  though  they  are 
different  too ;  quite  different  from  Shampuashuh — " 

"How?" 

Lois  did  not  want  to  say.  Her  grandmother, 
she  thought,  could  not  understand  her ;  and  if  she 
could  understand,  she  thought  she  would  be  per 
haps  hurt.  She  turned  the  conversation.  Then 
came  the  clearing  away  the  remains  of  dinner; 
washing  the  dishes;  baking  the  rest  of  the  tea- 
cakes;  cleansing  and  putting  away  the  baker; 
preparing  flour  for  next  day's  bread-making;  mak 
ing  her  own  bed  and  putting  her  room  in  order; 
doing  work  in  the  dairy  which  Madge  was  not  at 
home  to  take  care  of;  brushing  up  the  kitchen, 
putting  on  the  kettle,  setting  the  table  for  tea. 
Altogether  Lois  had  a  busy  two  or  three  hours, 
before  she  could  put  on  her  afternoon  dress  and 
come  and  sit  down  by  her  grandmother. 

"  It  is  a  change  !  "  she  said  smiling.  "  Such  a 
different  life  from  what  I  have  been  living.  You 
can't  think,  grandma,  what  a  contrast  between  this 
afternoon  and  last  Friday." 

"What  was  then?" 

"  I  was  sitting  in  Mrs.  Wishart's  drawing  room, 
doing  nothing  but  play  work,  and  a  gentleman 
talking  to  me." 

"Why  was  he  talking  to  you?  Warn't  Mrs. 
Wishart  there?" 

"No;  she  was  out." 


100  NOBODY. 

"  What  did  he  talk  to  you  for  ?  " 

"  I  was  the  only  one  there  was,"  said  Lois.  But 
looking  back,  she  could  not  avoid  the  thought  that 
Mr.  Dillwyn's  long  stay  and  conversation  had  not 
been  solely  a  taking  up  with  what  he  could  get. 

"  He  could  have  gone  away,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale, 
echoing  her  thought. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  wanted  to  go  away.  I  think 
he  liked  to  talk  to  me."  It  was  very  odd  too,  she 
thought. 

"  And  did  you  like  to  talk  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  know  I  hare  not  much  to  talk  about ; 
but  somehow  he  seemed  to  find  out  what  there  was." 

"  Had  lie  much  to  talk  about  ?  " 

"I  think  there  is  no  end  to  that,"  said  Lois. 
"  He  has  been  all  over  the  world  and  seen  every 
thing;  and  he  is  a  man  of  sense,  to  care  for  the 
things  that  are  worth  while;  and  he  is  educated; 
and  it  is  very  entertaining  to  hear  him  talk." 

"  Who  is  he  ?     A  young  man  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  young.  0  he  is  an  old  friend  of  Mrs. 
Wishart." 

"  Did  you  like  him  best  of  all  the  people  you  saw  ?  " 

"  0  no,  not  by  any  means.  I  hardly  know  him, 
in  fact;  not  so  well  as  others." 

"Who  are  the  others?  " 

"What  others,  grandmother?" 

"The  other  people  that  you  like  better." 

Lois  named  several  ladies,  among  them  Mrs. 
Wishart,  her  hostess. 

"There's  no  men's  names  among  them,"  remarked 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  101 

Mrs.  Armadale.  "  Didn't  you  see  none,  savin'  that 
one?" 

"  Plenty ! "  said  Lois  smiling. 

"  An'  nary  one  that  you  liked  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  grandmother ;  several ;  but  of  course — " 

"What,  of  course?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  of  course  I  did  not  have 
much  to  do  with  them ;  but  there  was  one  I  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  with." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  young  Mr.  Caruthers.  0  I  did  not 
have  much  to  do  with  him;  only  he  was  there 
pretty  often,  and  talked  to  me.  He  was  pleasant." 

"  Was  he  a  real  godly  man  ?  " 

"No,  grandmother.  He  is  not  a  Christian  at  all, 
I  think." 

"  And  yet  he  pleased  you,  Lois  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  so,  grandmother." 

"  I  heerd  it  in  the  tone.of  your  voice." 

"  Did  you  ?  Yes,  he  was  pleasant.  I  liked  him 
pretty  well.  People  that  you  would  call  godly  peo 
ple  never  came  there  at  all.  I  suppose  there  must 
be  some  in  New  York ;  but  I  did  not  see  any." 

There  was  silence  a  while. 

"  Eliza  Wishart  must  keep  poor  company,  if 
there  aint  one  godly  one  among  'em,"  Mrs.  Arma 
dale  began  again.  But  Lois  was  silent. 

"  What  do  they  talk  about  ?  " 

"  Everything  in  the  world,  except  that.  People 
and  things,  and  what  this  one  says  and  what  that 
one  did,  and  this  party  and  that  party.  I  can't  tell 


102  NOBODY. 

you,  grandma.  There  seemed  no  end  of  talk ;  and 
yet  it  did  not  amount  to  much  when  all  was  done. 
I  am  not  speaking  of  a  few,  gentlemen  like  Mr. 
Dillwyn,  and  a  few  more." 

"But  he  aint  a  Christian?" 

"No." 

"  Nor  t'other  one  ?  the  one  you  liked." 

"No." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come  away,  Lois." 

"  Yes,  grandma,  and  so  am  I ;  but  why  ?  " 

"You  know  why.  A  Christian  woman  maunt 
have  nothin'  to  do  with  men  that  aint  Christian." 

"Nothing  to  do !  Why,  we  must,  grandma.  We 
cannot  help  seeing  people  and  talking  to  them." 

"  The  snares  is  laid  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  What  are  we  to  do,  then,  grandmother?  " 

"  Lois  Lothrop,"  said  the  old  lady  suddenly  sit 
ting  upright,  "  what's  the  Lord's  will  ?  " 

"About— what?" 

"  About  drawin'  in  a  yoke  with  one  that  don't  go 
your  way  ?  " 

"He  says,  don't  do  it." 

"Then  mind  you  don't." 

"But  grandma,  there  is  no  talk  of  any  such  thing 
in  this  case,"  said  Lois,  half  laughing,  yet  a  little 
annoyed.  "Nobody  was  thinking  of  such  a  thing." 

"  You  don'  know  what  they  was  thinkiii'  of." 

"I  know  what  they  coidd  not  have  thought  of. 
I  am  different  from  them ;  I  am  not  of  their  world ; 
and  I  am  not  educated,  and  I  am  poor.  There  is  no 
danger,  grandmother." 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  103 

"Lois,  child,  you  never  know  where  danger  is 
comin'.  It's  safe  to  have  your  armour  on,  and  keep 
out  o'  temptation.  Tell  me  you'll  never  let  yourself 
like  a  man  that  aint  Christian !  " 

"  But  I  might  not  be  able  to  help  liking  him." 
"  Then  promise  me  you'll  never  marry  no  sich  a 
one." 

"  Grandma,  I'm  not  thinking  of  marrying." 
"  Lois,  what  is  the  Lord's  will  about  it  ?  " 
"  1  know,  grandma,"  Lois  answered  rat  her  soberly. 
"  And  you  know  why.     '  Thy  daughter  thou  shalt 
not  give  unto  his  son,  nor  his  daughter  shalt  thou 
take  unto  thy  son.     For  they  will  turn  away  thy 
son  from  following  me,  that  they  may  serve  other 
gods.'     I've  seen  it,  Lois,  over  and  over  agin.     I've 
Been    a    woman — or    a    man — witched   away   and 
dragged  down,  till  if  they  hadn't  lost  all  the  godli 
ness  they  ever  had,  it  warn't  because  they  didn't 
seem  so.     And  the  children  grew  up  to  be  scape 
graces." 

"  Don't  it  sometimes  work  the  other  way  ?  " 
"Not  often,  if  a  Christian  man  or  woman  has 
married  wrong  with  their  eyes  open.    Cos  it  proves, 
Lois,  that  proves,  that  the  ungodly  one  of  the  two 
has  the  most  power;  and  what  he  has  he's  like  to 
keep.     Lois,  I  mayn't  be  here  allays  to  look  after 
you;  promise  me  that  you'll  do  the  Lord's  will." 
"  I  hope  I  will,  grandma,"  Lois  answered  soberly. 
"Read  them  words  in  Corinthians  again." 
Lois  got  the  Bible  and  obeyed,  "  '  Be  ye  not  un 
equally  yoked  together  with  unbelievers :  for  what 


104  NOBODY. 

fellowship  hath  righteousness  with  unrighteous 
ness  ?  and  what  communion  hath  light  with  dark 
ness?  and  what  concord  hath  Christ  with  Belial?  or 
what  part  hath  he  that  belie  veth  with  an  infidel?'" 

"  Lois,  aint  them  words  plain  ?  " 

44  Very  plain,  grandma." 

"Will  ye  mind 'em?" 

"Yes,  grandma;  by  his  grace." 

"Ay,  ye  may  want  it,"  said  the  old  lady;  "but 
it's  safe  to  trust  the  Lord.  An'  I'd  rather  have 
you  suffer  heart-break  follerin'  the  Lord,  than  goin' 
t'other  way.  Now  you  may  read  to  me,  Lois. 
We'll  have  it  before  they  come  home." 

"  Who  has  read  to  you  while  I  have  been  gone  ?  " 

"  0  one  and  another.  Madge  mostly ;  but  Madge 
don't  care,  and  so  she  don'  know  how  to  read." 

Mrs.  Armadale's  sight  was  not  good;  and  it  was 
the  custom  for  one  of  the  girls,  Lois  generally,  to 
read  her  a  verse  or  two  morning  and  evening. 
Generally  it  was  a  small  portion,  talked  over  if 
they  had  time,  and  if  not,  then  thought  over  by  the 
old  lady  all  the  remainder  of  the  day  or  evening,  as 
the  case  might  be.  For  she  was  like  the  man  of 
whom  it  is  written — "  his  delight  is  in  the  law  of 
the  Lord,  and  in  his  law  doth  he  meditate  day  and 
night." 

"  What  shall  I  read,  grandma  ?  " 

"  You  can't  go  wrong." 

The  epistle  to  the  Corinthians  lay  open  before 
Lois,  and  she  read  the  words  following  those  which 
had  just  been  called  for. 


MRS.  ARMADALE.  105 

"  *  And  what  agreement  hath,  the  temple  ol  God 
with  idols  ?  for  ye  are  the  temple  of  the  living  God ; 
as  God  hath  said,  I  will  dwell  in  them,  and  walk 
in  them ;  and  I  will  be  their  God,  and  they  shall  be 
my  people.  Wherefore  come  ye  out  from  among 
them,  and  be  ye  separate,  saith  the  Lord,  and 
touch  not  the  unclean  thing;  and  I  will  receive 
you,  and  will  be  a  father  unto  you,  and  ye  shall  be 
my  sons  and  daughters,  saith  the  Lord  Almighty.'" 

If  anybody  had  been  there  to  see,  the  two 
women  made  the  loveliest  picture  at  this  moment. 
The  one  of  them  old,  weather-worn,  plain-featured, 
sitting  with  the  quiet  calm  of  the  end  of  a  work 
day  and  listening;  the  other  young,  blooming, 
fresh,  lovely,  with  a  wealth  of  youthful  charms 
about  her,  bending  a  little  over  the  big  book  on 
her  lap;  on  both  faces  a  reverent  sweet  gravity 
which  was  most  gracious.  Lois  read  and  stopped, 
without  looking  up. 

"  I  think  small  of  all  the  world,  alongside  o'  that 
promise,  Lois." 

"And  so  do  I,  grandmother." 

"But,  you  see,  the  Lord's  sons  and  daughters 
has  got  to  be  separate  from  other  folks." 

"  In  some  ways." 

"  Of  course  they've  got  to  live  among  folks,  but 
they've  got  to  be  separate  for  all ;  and  keep  their 
garments." 

"I  do  not  believe  it  is  easy  in  a  place  like  New 
York,"  said  Lois.  "  Seems  to  me,  I  was  getting  all 
mixed  up." 


106  NOBODY. 

"'Taint  easy  nowheres,  child.  Only,  where  the 
way  is  very  smooth,  folks  slides  quicker." 

"How  can  one  be  'separate,'  always,  grandma? 
in  the  midst  of  other  people  ?  " 

"  Take  care  that  you  keep  nearest  to  God.  Walk 
with  him ;  and  you'll  be  pretty  sure  to  be  separate 
from  the  most  o'  folks." 

There  was  no  more  said.  Lois  presently  closed 
the  book  and  laid  it  away,  and  the  two  sat  in  silence 
awhile.  I  will  not  affirm  that  Lois  did  not  feel 
something  of  a  stricture  round  her,  since  she  had 
given  that  promise  so  clearly.  Truly  the  promise 
altered  nothing,  it  only  made  things  somewhat  more 
tangible;  and  there  floated  now  and  then  past  Lois's 
mental  vision  an  image  of  a  handsome  head,  crowned 
with  graceful  locks  of  luxuriant  light  brown  hair, 
and  a  face  of  winning  pleasantness,  and  eyes  that 
looked  eagerly  into  her  eyes.  It  came  up  now  be 
fore  her,  this  vision,  with  a  certain  sense  of  some 
thing  lost.  Not  that  she  had  ever  reckoned  that 
image  as  a  thing  won ;  as  belonging,  or  ever  possi 
bly  to  belong,  to  herself;  for  Lois  never  had  such  a 
thought  for  a  moment.  All  the  same  came  now 
the  vision  before  her  with  the  commentary, — you 
never  can  have  it.  That  acquaintance,  and  that 
friendship,  and  that  intercourse,  is  a  thing  of  the 
past;  and  whatever  for  another  it  might  have  led 
to,  it  could  lead  to  nothing  for  you.  It  was  not  a 
defined  thought;  rather  a  floating  semi-conscious 
ness;  and  Lois  presently  rose  up  and  went  from 
thought  to  action. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    FAMILY. 

/ 

spring  day  was  fading  into  the  dusk  of  even- 
1  ing,  when  feet  and  voices  heard  outside  an 
nounced  that  the  travellers  were  returning.  And 
in  they  came,  bringing  a  breeze  of  business  and  a 
number  of  tied-up  parcels  with  them  into  the  quiet 
house. 

"The  table  ready!  how  good!  and  the  fire.  O 
it's  Lois !  Lois  is  here ! — "  and  then  there  were  warm 
embraces,  and  then  the  old  grandmother  was  kissed. 
There  were  two  girls,  one  tall,  the  other  very  tall. 

"I'm  tired  to  death!"  said  the  former  of  these. 
"  Charity  would  do  no  end  of  work;  you  know  she 
is  a  steam  engine,  and  she  had  the  steam  up  to-day, 
I  can  tell  you.  There's  no  saying  how  good  supper 
will  be ;  for  our  lunch  wasn't  much,  and  not  good 
at  that;  and  there's  something  good  here,  I  can  tell 
by  my  nose.  Did  you  take  care  of  the  milk,  Lois? 
you  couldn't  know  where  to  set  it." 

"  There  is  no  bread,  Lois.  I  suppose  you  found 
out?"  the  other  sister  said. 

"  0  she's  made  biscuits!"  said  Madge.  "Aren't 

(107). 


108  NOBODY. 

you  a  brick,  though,  Lois !  I  was  expecting  we'd 
have  everything  to  do;  and  it's  all  done.  Ain't  that 
what  you  call  comfortable?  Is  the  tea  made?  I'll 
be  ready  in  a  minute." 

But  that  was  easier  said  than  done. 

"  Lois!  what  sort  of  hats  are  they  wearing  in  New 
York?" 

"Lois,  are  mantillas  fashionable?  The  woman 
in  New  Haven,  the  milliner,  said  everybody  was 
going  to  wear  them.  She  wanted  to  make  me  get 
one." 

"We  can  make  a  mantilla  as  well  as  she  can," 
Lois  answered. 

"  If  we  had  the  pattern !  But  is  everybody  wear 
ing  them  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  must  be  early  for  mantillas." 

"  0,  lined  and  wadded  of  course.  But  is  every 
body  wearing  them  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.     I  do  not  recollect." 

"Not  recollect!"  cried  the  tall  sister.  "What 
are  your  eyes  good  for  ?  What  do  people  wear  ? " 

"  I  wore  my  coat  and  cape.  I  do  not  know  very 
well  about  other  people.  People  wear  different 
things." 

"  0  but  that  they  do  not,  Lois ! "  the  other  sister 
exclaimed.  "  There  is  always  one  thing  that  is  the 
fashion ;  and  that  is  the  thing  one  wants  to  know 
about.  Last  year  it  was  visites.  Now  what  is  it 
this  year?  And  what  are  the  hats  like  ?" 

"They  are  smaller." 

u  There !     And  that  woman  in  New  Haven  said 


THE  FAMILY.  109 

they  were  going  to  be  large  still.  Who  is  one  to 
trust!" 

"  You  may  trust  me,"  said  Lois.  "  I  am  sure  of 
so  much.  Moreover,  there  is  my  new  straw  bonnet, 
which  Mrs.  Wishart  gave  me;  you  can  see  by  that." 

This  was  very  satisfactory;  and  talk  ran  on  in 
the  same  line  for  some  time. 

"  And  Lois,  have  you  seen  a  great  many  people  ? 
At  Mrs.  Wishart's,  I  mean." 

"Yes,  plenty;  at  her  house  and  at  other  houses." 

"  Was  it  great  fun  ?  "  Madge  asked. 

*'  Sometimes.  But  indeed,  yes ;  it  was  great  fun 
generally,  to  see  the  different  ways  of  people,  and 
the  beautiful  houses,  and  furniture,  and  pictures, 
and  everything." 

"Everything!     Was  everything  beautiful?" 

"No,  not  beautiful;  but  everything  in  most  of 
the  houses  where  I  went  was  handsome;  often  it 
was  magnificent." 

"  I  suppose  it  seemed  so  to  you,"  said  Charity. 

"  Tell  us,  Lois ! "  urged  the  other  sister. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  solid  silver  dishes  to  hold 
the  vegetables  on  the  table,  and  solid  silver  pudding 
dishes,  and  gold  tea  spoons,  in  the  most  delicate 
little  painted  cups?" 

"  I  should  say  it  was  ridiculous,"  said  the  elder 
sister.  "  What's  the  use  o'  havin'  your  vegetables 
in  silver  dishes  ?  " 

"  What's  the  use  of  having  them  in  dishes  at  all?" 
laughed  Lois.  "  They  might  be  served  in  big  cab 
bage  leaves;  or  in  baskets." 


110  NOBODY. 

"  That's  nonsense,"  said  Charity.  "  Of  course 
they  must  be  in  dishes  of  some  sort;  but  vege 
tables  doii1t  taste  any  better  out  o'  silver." 

"The  dinner  does  not  taste  any  better,"  said 
Lois,  "  but  it  looks  a  deal  better,  I  can  tell  you. 
You  have  just  no  idea,  girls,  how  beautiful  a 
dinner  table  can  be.  The  glass  is  beautiful;  deli 
cate,  thin,  clear  glass,  cut  with  elegant  flowers  and 
vines  running  over  it.  And  the  table  linen  is  a 
pleasure  to  see,  just  the  damask ;  it  is  so  white  and 
so  fine  and  so  smooth,  and  woven  in  such  lovely 
designs.  Mrs.  Wishart  is  very  fond  of  her  table 
linen,  and  has  it  in  beautiful  patterns.  Then  silver 
is  always  handsome.  Then  sometimes  there  is  a 
most  superb  centre  piece  to  the  table ;  a  magnifi 
cent  tall  thing  of  silver — I  don't  know  what  to  call 
it ;  not  a  vase,  and  not  a  dish ;  but  high,  and  with 
different  bowls  or  shells  filled  with  flowers  and 
fruit.  Why  the  mere  ice  creams  sometimes  were 
in  all  sorts  of  pretty  flower  and  fruit  forms." 

"  Ice  cream !  "  cried  Madge. 

"  And  I  say,  what's  the  use  of  all  that  ? "  said 
Charity,  who  had  not  been  baptized  in  character. 

"The  use  is,  its  looking  so  very  pretty,"  Lois 
answered. 

"  And  so,  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  have  your 
vegetables  in  silver  dishes  ?  I  should  like  to  know 
why  things  are  any  better  for  looking  pretty,  when 
all's  done  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  better,  I  suppose,"  said  Madge.     • 

u  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  think  they  must  be," 


THE  FAMILY.  Ill 

said  Lois,  innocent  of  the  personal  application 
which  the  other  two  were  making.  For  Madge 
was  a  very  handsome  girl,  while  Charity  was  hard 
favoured,  like  her  grandmother.  "  It  does  one  good 
to  see  pretty  things." 

"That's  no  better  than  pride,"  said  Charity. 
"Things  that  aint  pretty  are  just  as  useful,  and 
more  useful.  That's  all  pride,  silver  dishes,  and 
flowers,  and  stuff.  It  just  makes  people  stuck 
up.  Don't  they  think  themselves,  all  those  grand 
folks,  don't  they  think  themselves  a  hitch  or  two 
higher  than  Shampuashuh  folks?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lois;  "but  1  do  not  know,  so  I 
cannot  say." 

"0  Lois,"  cried  Madge,  "are  the  people  very 
nice?" 

"Some  of  them." 

"  You  haven't  lost  your  heart,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Only  part  of  it." 

"  Part  of  it !     0,  to  whom,  Lois  ?     Who  is  it  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Wishart's  black  horses." 

"  Pshaw ! "  exclaimed  Charity.  "  Haven't  Shamp 
uashuh  folks  got  horses  ?  Don't  tell  me  !  " 

"  But  Lois ! "  pursued  Madge,  "  who  was  the 
nicest  person  you  saw  ?  " 

"  Madge,  I  don't  know.  A  good  many  seemed 
to  be  nice." 

"Well  who  was  the  handsomest?  and  who  was 
the  cleverest  ?  and  who  was  the  kindest  to  you  ?  I 
don't  mean  Mrs.  Wishart.  Now  answer." 

"The   handsomest,  and  the  cleverest,  and  the 


112  NOBODY. 

kindest  to  me?"  Lois  repeated  slowly.  "  Well,  let 
ine  see.  The  handsomest  was  a  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"Who's  he?" 

"  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"  What  is  he,  then  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,  very  much  thought  of; 
rich,  and  knows  everybody;  that's  about  all  I  can 
tell." 

"  Was  he  the  cleverest,  too,  that  you  saw  ?  " 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Who  was  that?" 

"Another  gentleman;  a  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"Dillun !  "  Madge  repeated. 

"That  is  the  pronunciation  of  the  name.  It 
is  spelt  D,  i,  1,  1,  w,  y,  n — Dilwin;  but  it  is  called 
Dillun." 

"And  who  was  kindest  to  you?     Go  on,  Lois." 

"  0  everybody  was  kind  to  me,"  Lois  said  eva 
sively.  "  Kind  enough.  1  did  not  need  kindness." 

"  Whom  did  you  like  best,  then  ?  " 

"Of  those  two?  They  are  both  men  of  the 
world,  and  nothing  to  me;  but  of  the  two,  I  think 
I  like  the  first  best." 

"  Caruthers.     I  shall  remember,"  said  Madge. 

"  That  is  foolish  talk,  children,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Armadale. 

"Yes,  but  grandma,  you  know  children  are 
bound  to  be  foolish  sometimes,"  returned  Madge. 

"  And  then  the  rod  of  correction  must  drive  it 
far  from  them,"  said  the  old  lady.  "That's  the 
common  way;  but  it  aint  the  easiest  way.  Lois 


THE  FAMILY.  113 

said  true;  these  people  are  nothing  and  can  be 
nothing  to  her.  I  wouldn't  make  believe  anything 
about  it,  if  I  was  you." 

The  conversation  changed  to  other  things.  And 
soon  took  a  fresh  spring  at  the  entrance  of  another 
of  the  family,  an  aunt  of  the  girls;  who  lived  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  came  in  to  hear  the  news 
from  New  Haven  as  well  as  from  New  York.  And 
then  it  knew  no  stop.  While  the  table  was  clear 
ing  and  while  Charity  and  Madge  were  doing  up 
the  dishes,  and  when  they  all  sat  down  round  the 
fire  afterwards,  there  went  on  a  ceaseless,  restless, 
unending  flow  of  questions,  answers  and  comments; 
going  over,  I  am  bound  to  say,  all  the  ground 
already  travelled  during  supper.  Mrs.  Armadale 
sometimes  sighed  to  herself;  but  this,  if  the  others 
heard  it,  could  not  check  them. 

Mrs.  Marx  was  a  lively,  clever,  kind,  good-na 
tured  woman;  with  plenty  of  administrative  ability, 
like  so  many  New  England  women;  full  of  re 
sources;  quick  with  her  head  and  her  hands,  and 
not  slow  with  her  tongue ;  an  uneducated  woman, 
and  yet  one  who  had  made  such  good  use  of  life- 
schooling  that  for  all  practical  purposes  she  had 
twice  the  wit  of  many  who  have  gone  through  all 
the  drill  of  the  best  institutions.  A  keen  eye,  a 
prompt  judgment,  and  a  fearless  speech,  all  be 
longed  to  Mrs.  Marx;  universally  esteemed  and 
looked  up  to  and  welcomed  by  all  her  associates. 
She  was  not  handsome ;  she  was  even  strikingly 
deficient  in  the  lines  of  beauty.;  and  refinement 


114  NOBODY. 

was  not  one  of  her  characteristics,  other  than  the 
refinement  which  comes  of  kindness  and  unselfish 
ness.  Mrs.  Marx  would  be  delicately  careful  of 
another's  feelings,  when  there  was  real  need;  she 
could  shew  an  exceeding  great  tenderness  and 
tact  then;  while  in  ordinary  life  her  voice  was 
rather  loud,  her  movements  were  free  and  angular, 
and  her  expressions  very  unconstrained.  Nobody 
ever  saw  Mrs.  Marx  anything  but  neat,  whatever 
she  possibly  might  be  doing;  in  other  respects  her 
costume  was  often  extremely  unconventional;  but 
she  could  dres.s  herself  nicely  and  look  quite  as 
becomes  a  lady.  Independent  was  Mrs.  Marx, 
above  all  and  in  everything. 

"  I  guess  she's  come  back  all  safe !  "  was  her 
comment,  made  to  Mrs.  Armadale,  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  long  talk.  Mrs.  Armadale  made  no  answer. 

"It's  sort  o'  risky,  to  let  a  young  thing  like 
that  go  off  by  herself  among  all  those  high  flyers. 
It's  like  sendin'  a  pigeon  to  sail  about  with  the 
hawks." 

"Why,  aunt  Anne,"  said  Lois  at  this,  u  whom  can 
you  possibly  mean  by  the  hawks  ?  " 

"The  sort  o'  birds  that  eat  up  pigeons." 

"I  saw  nobody  that  wanted  to  eat  me  up,  I 
assure  you." 

"  There's  the  difference  between  you  and  a  real 
pigeon.  The  pigeon  knows  the  hawk  when  she 
sees  it;  you  don't." 

"  Do  you  think  the  hawks  all  live  in  cities  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Marx.     "They  go  swoop- 


THE  FAMILY.  115 

in'  about  in  the  country  now  and  then.  I  shouldn't 
a  bit  wonder  to  see  one  come  sailin'  over  our  heads 
one  of  these  fine  days.  But  now,  you  see,  grandma 
has  got  you  under  her  wing  again."  Mrs.  Marx 
was  Mrs.  Armadale's  half  daughter  only,  and  some 
times  in  company  of  others  called  her  as  her  grand 
children  did.  "How  does  home  look  to  you,  Lois? 
now  you're  back  in  it." 

"  Very  much  as  it  used  to  look,"  Lois  answered 
smiling. 

"The  taste  aint  somehow  taken  out  o'  things? 
Ha'  you  got  your  old  appetite  for  common  doiri's  ? '' 

"  I  shall  try  to-morrow.  I  am  going  out  into  the 
garden  to  get  some  peas  in." 

"  Mine  is  in." 

"Not  long,  aunt  Anne?  the  frost  hasn't  been 
long  out  of  the  ground." 

"  Put  'em  in  to-day,  Lois.  And  your  garden  has 
the  sun  on  it;  so  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  beat  me 
after  all.  Well,  I  must  go  along  and  look  arter  my 
old  man.  He  just  let  me  run  away  now  'cause  I 
told  him  I  was  kind  o'  crazy  about  the  fashions ; 
and  he  said  'twas  a  feminine  weakness  and  he  pitied 
me.  So  I  come.  Mrs.  Dashiell  has  been  a  week 
to  New  London ;  but  la !  New  London  bonnets  is  no 
account." 

"  You  don't  get  much  light  from  Lois,"  remarked 
Charity. 

"No.  Did  ye  learn  anything,  Lois,  while  you 
was  away  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  aunt  Anne." 


116  NOBODY. 

"What,  then?  Let's  hear.  Learnin'  aint  good 
for  much,  without  you  give  it  out." 

Lois  however  seemed  not  inclined  to  be  generous 
with  her  stores  of  new  knowledge. 

"  I  guess  she's  learned  Shampuashuh  aint  much 
of  a  place,"  the  elder  sister  remarked  further. 

"  She's  been  spellin'  her  lesson  backwards,  then. 
Shampuashuh's  a  first-rate  place." 

"  But  we've  no  grand  people  here.  We  don't  eat 
off  silver  dishes,  nor  drink  out  o'  gold  spoons;  and 
our  horses  can  go  without  little  lookin'  glasses  over 
their  heads,"  Charity  proceeded. 

"  Do  you  think  there's  any  use  in  all  that,  Lois?" 
said  her  aunt. 

"  I  don't  know,  aunt  Anne,"  Lois  answered  with 
a  little  hesitation. 

"Then  I'm  sorry  for  ye,  girl,  if  you  are  left  to 
think  such  nonsense.  Aint  our  victuals  as  good 
here,  as  what  comes  out  o'  those  silver  dishes  ?  " 

"Not  always." 

"Are  New  York  folks  better  cooks  than  we 
be?" 

"  They  have  servants  that  know  how  to  do  things." 

"  Servants !  Don't  tell  me  o'  no  servants'  doin's ! 
What  can  they  make  that  I  can't  make  better  ?  " 

" Can  you  make  a  soufne,  aunt  Anne?" 

"What's  that?" 

"Or  biscuit  glace?" 

"  Biskivee  glassy  ?  "  repeated  the  indignant  Shamp 
uashuh  lady.  "What  do  you  mean,  Lois?  Speak 
English,  if  I  am  to  understand  you." 


THE  FAMILY.  117 

"  These  things  have  no  English  names." 

"Are  they  any  the  better  for  that?" 

"  No ;  and  nothing  could  make  them  better.  They 
are  as  good  as  it  is  possible  for  anything  to  be;  and 
there  are  a  hundred  other  things  equally  good,  that 
we  know  nothing  about  here." 

"  I'd  have  watched  and  found  out  how  they  were 
done,"  said  the  elder  woman,  eyeing  Lois  with  a 
mingled  expression  of  incredulity  and  curiosity  and 
desire,  Avhich  it  was  comical  to  see.  Only  nobody 
there  perceived  the  comicality.  They  sympathized 
too  deeply  in  the  feeling. 

"I  would  have  watched,"  said  Lois;  "but  I  could 
not  go  down  into  the  kitchen  for  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"Nobody  goes  into  the  kitchen,  except  to  give 
orders." 

"  Nobody  goes  into  the  kitchen ! "  cried  Mrs.  Marx, 
sinking  down  again  into  a  chair.  She  had  risen  to 
go. 

"  I  mean,  except  the  servants." 

"  It's  the  shiftlessest  thing  I  ever  heard  o'  New 
York.  And  do  you  think  that's  a  nice  way  o'  livin', 
Lois?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do,  aunt  Anne.  It  is  pleasant  to 
have  plenty  of  time  for  other  things." 

"  What  other  things  ?  " 

"  Reading." 

"  Reading  !  La,  child  !  I  can  read  more  books 
in  a  year  than  is  good  for  me,  and  do  all  my  own 
work,  too.  I  like  play,  as  well  as  other  folks ;  but 


118  NOBODY. 

I  like  to  know  my  work's  done  first.     Then  I  can 
play." 

"  Well,  there  the  servants  do  the  work." 
"  And  you  like  that?  That  ain't  a  nat'ral  way  o' 
livin',  Lois ;  and  I  believe  it  leaves  folks  too  much 
time  to  get  into  mischief.  When  folks  hasn't  busi 
ness  enough  of  their  own  to  attend  to,  they're  free 
to  put  their  fingers  in  other  folks'  business.  And 
they  get  sot  up,  besides.  My  word  for  it,  it  aint 
healthy,  for  mind  nor  body.  And  you  needn't  think 
I'm  doin'  what  I  complain  of,  for  your  business  is 
my  business.  Good  bye,  girls.  I'll  buy  a  cook  book 
the  next  time  I  go  to  New  London,  and  learn  how 
to  make  suflles.  Lois  shan't  hold  that  whip  over 


me." 


CHAPTER  X. 

LOIS'S    GARDEN. 

LOIS  went  at  her  gardening  the  next  morning, 
as  good  as  her  word.  It  was  the  last  of  March, 
and  an  anticipation  of  April,  according  to  the  fash 
ion  the  months  have  of  sending  promissory  notes  in 
advance  of  them ;  and  this  year  the  spring  was  early. 
The  sun  was  up,  but  not  much  more,  when  Lois 
with  her  spade  and  rake  and  garden  line  opened 
the  little  door  in  the  garden  fence  and  shut  it  after 
her.  Then  she  was  alone  with  the  spring.  The 
garden  was  quite  a  roomy  place,  and  pretty,  a  little 
later  in  the  season ;  for  some  old  and  large  apple 
and  cherry  trees  shadowed  parts  of  it,  and  broke 
up  the  stiff,  bare  regularity  of  an  ordinary  square 
bit  of  ground  laid  out  in  lesser  squares.  Such  reg 
ularity  was  impossible  here.  In  one  place  two  or 
three  great  apple  trees  in  a  group  formed  a  canopy 
over  a  wide  circuit  of  turf.  The  hoe  and  the  spade 
must  stand  back  respectfully;  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done.  One  corner  was  quite  given  up  to  the  oc 
cupancy  of  an  old  cherry  tree,  and  its  spread  of 
grassy  ground  beneath  and  about  it  was  again  con- 


120  NOBODY. 

siderable.  Still  other  trees  stood  here  and  there; 
and  the  stems  of  none  of  them  were  approached  by 
cultivation.  In  the  spaces  between  Lois  stretched 
her  line  and  drew  her  farrows,  and  her  rows  of  peas 
and  patches  of  corn  had  even  so  room  enough. 

Grass  was  hardly  green  yet,  and  tree  branches 
were  bare,  and  the  -upturned  earth  was  implanted. 
There  was  nothing  here  yet  but  the  Spring  with 
Lois.  It  is  wonderful  what  a  way  Spring  has  of  re 
vealing  herself,  even  while  she  is  hid  behind  the 
brown  and  gray  wrappings  she  has  borrowed  from 
Winter.  Her  face  is  hardly  seen;  her  form  is  not 
discernible;  but  there  is  a  breath  and  a  smile  and  a 
kiss,  that  are  like  nothing  her  brothers  and  sisters 
have  to  give.  Of  them  all,  Spring's  smile  brings 
most  of  hope  and  expectation  with  it.  And  there 
is  a  perfume  Spring  wears,  which  is  the  rarest,  and 
most  un  traceable,  and  most  unmistakeable,  of  all. 
The  breath  and  the  perfume,  and  the  smile  arid  the 
kiss,  greeted  Lois  as  she  went  into  the  old  garden. 
She  knew  them  well,  of  old  time,  and  welcomed 
them  now.  She  even  stood  still  a  bit,  to  take  in 
the  rare  beauty  and  joy  of  them.  And  yet,  the  ap 
ple  trees  were  bare,  and  the  cherry  trees;  the  turf 
was  dead  and  withered;  the  brown  plough ed-up 
soil  had  no  relief  of  green  growths.  Only  Spring 
was  there  with  Lois,  and  yet  that  seemed  enough ; 
Spring  and  Associations.  How  many  hours  of  pleas 
ant  labour  in  that  enclosed  bit  of  ground  there  had 
been ;  how  many  lapfuls  and  basketfuls  of  fruits  the 
rich  reward  of  the  labour;  how  Lois  had  enjoyed 


Lois's  GARDEN.  121 

both.     And  now,  here  was  spring  again,  and  the 
implanted  garden.     Lois  wanted  no  more. 

She  took  her  stand  under  one  of  the  bare  old  ap 
ple  trees  and  surveyed  her  ground,  like  a  young 
general.  She  had  it  all  mapped  out  and  knew  just 
where  things  were  last  year.  The  patch  of  potatoes 
was  in  that  corner,  and  a  fine  yield  they  had  been. 
Corn  had  been  here ;  yes,  and  here  she  would  run 
her  lines  of  early  peas.  Lois  went  to  work.  It 
was  not  very  easy  work,  as  you  would  know  if  you 
had  ever  tried  to  reduce  ground  that  has  been 
merely  ploughed  and  harrowed,  to  the  smooth 
evenness  necessary  for  making  shallow  drills.  Lois 
plied  spade  and  rake  with  an  earnest  good  will  and 
thorough  knowledge  of  her  business.  Do  not  im 
agine  an  untidy  long  skirt  sweeping  the  soft  soil 
and  transferring  large  portions  of  it  to  the  gardener's 
ankles;  Lois  was  dressed  for  her  work,  in  a  short 
stuff  frock  and  leggins;  and  looked  as  nice  when 
she  came  out  as  when  she  went  in,  albeit  not  in 
any  costume  ever  seen  in  Fifth  Avenue  or  Central 
Park.  But  what  do  1  say?  If  she  looked  "nice" 
when  she  went  out  to  her  garden,  she  looked  superb 
when  she  came  in,  or  when  she  had  been  an  hour 
or  so  delving.  Her  hat  fallen  back  a  little ;  her  rich 
masses  of  hair  just  a  little  loosened,  enough  to  shew 
their  luxuriance ;  the  colour  flushed  into  her  cheeks 
with  the  exercise,  and  her  eyes  all  alive  with  spirit 
and  zeal — ah,  the  fair  ones  in  Fifth  or  any  other 
avenue  would  give  a  great  deal  to  look  so ;  but  that 
sort  of  thing  goes  with  the  short  frock  and  leggins, 


122  NOBODY. 

and  will  not  be  conjured  up  by  a  mantua  maker. 
Lois  had  after  a  while  a  strip  of  her  garden  ground 
nicely  levelled  and  raked  smooth;  and  then  her  line 
was  stretched  over  it,  and  her  drills  drawn,  and  the 
peas  were  planted  and  were  covered ;  and  a  little 
stick  at  each  end  marked  how  far  the  planted  rows 
extended. 

Lois  gathered  up  her  tools  then,  to  go  in,  but 
instead  of  going  in  she  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
wooden  seats  that  were  fixed  under  the  great  apple 
trees.  She  was  tired  and  satisfied;  and  in  that 
mood  of  mind  and  body  one  is  easily  tempted  to 
musing.  Aimlessly,  carelessly,  thoughts  roved  and 
carried  her  she  knew  not  whither.  She  began  to 
draw  contrasts.  Her  home  life,  the  sweets  of  which 
she  was  just  tasting,  set  off  her  life  at  Mrs.  Wish- 
art's  with  its  strange  difference  of  flavour;  hardly 
the  brown  earth  of  her  garden  was  more  different 
from  the  brilliant  coloured  Smyrna  carpets  upon 
which  her  feet  had  moved  in  some  people's  houses. 
Life  there  and  life  here, — how  diverse  from  one 
another!  Could  both  be  life?  Suddenly  it  oc 
curred  to  Lois  that  her  garden  fence  shut  in  a  very 
small  world,  and  a  world  in  which  there  Avas  no 
room  for  many  things  that  had  seemed  to  her  de 
lightful  and  desirable  in  these  weeks  that  were 
just  passed.  Life  must  be  narrow  within  these 
borders.  She  had  had  several  times  in  New  York 
a  sort  of  perception  of  this,  and  here  it  grew  defined. 
Knowledge,  education,  the  intercourse  of  polished 
eociety,  the  smooth  ease  and  refinement  of  well- 


Lois's  GARDEN.  123 

ordered  households,  and  the  habits  of  affluence,  and 
the  gratification  of  cultivated  tastes;  more  yet,  the 
having  cultivated  tastes;  the  gratification  of  them 
seemed  to  Lois  a  less  matter.  A  large  horizon,  a 
wide  experience  of  men  and  things;  was  it  not  bet 
ter,  did  it  not  make  life  richer,  did  it  not  elevate 
the  human  creature  to  something  of  more  power 
and  worth,  than  a  very  narrow  and  confined  sphere 
with  its  consequent  narrow  and  confined  way  of 
looking  at  things  ?  Lois  was  just  tired  enough  to 
let  all  these  thoughts  pass  over  her,  like  gentle 
waves  of  an  incoming  tide,  and  they  were  empha 
sized  here  and  there  by  a  vision  of  a  brown  curly 
head  and  a  kindly,  handsome,  human  face  looking 
into  hers.  It  was  a  vision  that  came  and  went, 
floated  in  and  disappeared  among  the  waves  of 
thought  that  rose  and  fell.  Was  it  not  better  to 
sit  and  talk  even  with  Mr.  Dillwyn,  than  to  dig  and 
plant  peas?  Was  not  the  Lois  who  did  that,  a  quite 
superior  creature  to  the  Lois  who  did  this  ?  Any 
common,  coarse  man  could  plant  peas,  and  do  it  as 
well  as  she;  was  this  to  be  her  work,  this  and  the 
like,  for  the  rest  of  her  life  ?  Just  the  labour  for 
material  existence,  instead  of  the  refining  and  form 
ing  and  up-building  of  the  nobler  inner  nature, 
the  elevation  of  existence  itself?  My  little  garden 
ground !  thought  Lois ;  is  this  indeed  all  ?  And 
what  would  Mr.  Caruthers  think,  if  he  could  see  me 
now  ?  Think  he  had  been  cheated,  and  that  I  am 
not  what  he  thought  I  was.  It  is  no  matter  what 
he  thinks;  I  shall  never  see  him  again;  it  will  not 


124  NOBODY. 

be  best  that  I  should  ever  pay  Mrs.  Wishart  a  visit 
again,  even  if  she  should  ask  me ;  not  in  New  York. 
I  suppose  the  Isles  of  Shoals  would  be  safe  enough. 
There  would  be  nobody  there.  Well — I  like  gar 
dening.  And  it  is  great  fun  to  gather  the  peas 
when  they  are  large  enough ;  and  it  is  fun  to  pick 
strawberries ;  and  it  is  fun  to  do  everything,  gener 
ally.  I  like  it  all.  But,  if  I  could,  if  I  had  a  chance, 
which  I  cannot  have,  I  would  like,  and  enjoy,  the 
other  sort  of  thing  too.  I  could  be  a  good  deal 
more  than  I  am,  if  I  had  the  opportunity. 

Lois  was  getting  rested  by  this  time,  and  she 
gathered  up  her  tools  again,  with  the  thought  that 
breakfast  would  taste  good.  I  suppose  a  whiff  of 
the  fumes  of  coffee  preparing  in  the  house  was 
borne  out  to  her  upon  the  air  and  suggested  the 
idea.  And  as  she  went  in  she  cheerfully  reflected 
that  their  plain  house  was  full  of  comfort,  if  not  of 
beauty;  and  that  she  and  her  sisters  were  doing 
what  was  given  them  to  do,  and  therefore  what 
they  were  meant  to  do ;  and  then  came  the  thought, 
so  sweet  to  the  servant  who  loves  his  Master,  that 
it  is  all  for  the  Master;  and  that  if  He  is  pleased, 
all  is  gained,  the  utmost,  that  life  can  do  or  desire. 
And  Lois  went  in,  trilling  low  a  sweet  Methodist 
hymn,  to  an  air  both  plaintive  and  joyous,  which 
somehow — as  many  of  the  old  Methodist  tunes  do 
— expressed  the  plaintiveness  and  the  joyousness 
together  with  a  kind  of  triumphant  effect. 

"  0  tell  me  no  more  of  this  world's  vain  store  ! 
The  time  for  such  trifles  with  me  now  is  o'er." 


Lois's  GARDEN.  125 

Lois  had  a  voice  exceedingly  sweet  and  rich;  an 
uncommon  contralto;  and  when  she  sang  one  of 
these  hymns  it  came  with  its  fall  power.  Mrs. 
Armadale  heard  her,  and  murmured  a  "  Praise  the 
Lord!"  And  Charity,  getting  the  breakfast,  heard 
her;  and  made  a  different  comment. 

"  Were  you  meaning,  now,  what  you  were  sing 
ing  when  you  came  in  ? "  she  asked  at  break 
fast. 

"  What  I  was  singing  ?  "  Lois  repeated  in  aston 
ishment. 

"Yes,  what  you  were  singing.  You  sang  it  loud 
enough  and  plain  enough ;  ha'  you  forgotten  ?  Did 
you  mean  it?" 

"  One  should  always  mean  what  one  sings,"  said 
Lois  gravely. 

"  So  I  think;  and  I  want  to  know,  did  you  mean 
that  ?  *  The  time  for  such  trifles ' — is  it  over  with 
you,  sure  enough  ?  " 

"What  trifles?" 

"  You  know  best.  What  did  you  mean  ?  It  be 
gins  about  '  this  world's  vain  store ; '  ha'  you  done 
with  the  world  ?  " 

"Not  exactly." 

"  Then  I  wouldn't  say  so." 

"But  I  didn't  say  so,"  Lois  returned,  laughing 
now.  "The  hymn  means,  that  'this  world's  vain 
store '  is  not  my  treasure ;  and  it  isn't.  '  The  time 
for  such  trifles  with  me  now  is  o'er.'  I  have 
found  something  better.  As  Paul  says,  'When 
I  became  a  man,  I  put  away  childish  things.'  So, 


126  NOBODY. 

since  I  have  learned  to  know  something  else, 
the  world's  store  has  lost  its  great  value  for 
me." 

"  Thank  the  Lord !  "  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"You  needn't  say  that,  neither,  grandma,"  Char 
ity  retorted.  "I  don't  believe  it  one  bit,  all  such 
talk.  It  aint  nature,  nor  reasonable.  Folks  say 
that  just  when  somethin's  gone  the  wrong  way, 
and  they  want  to  comfort  themselves  with  makin' 
believe  they  don't  care  about  it.  Wait  till  the 
chance  comes,  and  see  if  they  don't  care !  That's 
what  I  say." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  it,  then,  Charity," 
remarked  the  old  grandmother. 

"  Everybody  has  a  right  to  his  views,"  returned 
Miss  Charity.  "That's  what  I  always  say." 

"  You  must  leave  her  her  views,  grandma,"  said 
Lois  pleasantly.  "  She  will  have  to  change  them, 
some  day." 

"  What  will  make  me  change  them  ?  " 

"Coming  to  know  the  truth." 

"You  think  nobody  but  you  knows  the  truth. 
Now  Lois,  I'll  ask  you.  Aint  you  sorry  to  be  back 
and  out  of  'this  world's  vain  store' — out  of  all 
the  magnificence  and  back  in  your  garden  work 
again  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  enjoy  digging  in  the  dirt  and  wearin'  that 
outlandish  rig  you  put  on  for  the  garden  ?  " 

"  I  enjoy  digging  in  the  dirt  very  much.  The 
dress  I  admire  no  more  than  you  do." 


Lois's  GARDEN.  127 

"And  you've  got  everythin'  you  want  in  the 
world?" 

"  Charity,  Charity,  that  aint  fair,"  Madge  put  in. 
"Nobody  has  that;  you  haven't,  and  I  haven't; 
why  should  Lois  V  " 

"  Cos  she  says  she's  found  '  a  city  where  true 
joys  abound';  now  let's  hear  if  she  has." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  Lois  smiling. 

"  And  you've  got  all  you  want  ?  " 

"No,  I  would  like  a  good  many  things  I  haven't 
got,  if  it's  the  Lord's  pleasure  to  give  them." 

"  Suppose  it  aint  ?  " 

"  Then  I  do  not  want  them,"  said  Lois,  looking 
up  with  so  clear  and  bright  a  face  that  her  carping 
sister  was  for  the  moment  silenced.  And  I  sup 
pose  Charity  watched;  but  she  never  could  find 
reason  to  think  that  Lois  had  not  spoken  the  truth. 
Lois  was  the  life  of  the  house.  Madge  was  a  hand 
some  and  quiet  girl;  could  follow  but  rarely  led  in 
the  conversation.  Charity  talked,  but  was  hardly 
enlivening  to  the  spirits  of  the  company.  Mrs. 
Armadale  was  in  ordinary  a  silent  woman ;  could 
talk  indeed,  and  well,  and  much;  however  these 
occasions  were  mostly  when  she  had  one  auditor 
and  was  in  thorough  sympathy  with  that  one. 
Amidst  these  different  elements  of  the  household 
life  Lois  played  the  part  of  the  flux  in  a  furnace; 
she  was  the  happy  accommodating  medium  through 
which  all  the  others  came  into  best  play  and  found 
their  full  relations  to  one  another.  Lois's  bright 
ness  and  spirit  were  never  dulled;  her  sympathies 


128  NOBODY. 

were  never  wearied ;  her  intelligence  was  never  at 
fault.  And  her  work  was  never  neglected.  No 
body  had  ever  to  remind  Lois  that  it  was  time  for 
her  to  attend  to  this  or  that  thing  which  it  was 
her  charge  to  do.  Instead  of  which,  she  was  very 
often  ready  to  help  somebody  else  not  quite  so 
"forehanded."  The  garden  took  on  fast  its  dressed 
and  ordered  look;  the  strawberries  were  uncov 
ered  and  the  raspberries  tied  up  and  the  currant 
bushes  trimmed;  and  pea  sticks  and  J^ean  poles 
bristled  here  and  there  promisingly.  And  then 
the  green  growths  for  which  Lois  had  worked 
began  to  reward  her  labour.  Kadishes  were  on  the 
tea-table,  and  lettuce  made  the  dinner  "another 
thing " ;  and  rows  of  springing  beets  and  carrots 
looked  like  plenty  in  the  future.  Potatoes  were 
up,  and  rare-ripes  were  planted,  and  cabbages;  and 
corn  began  to  appear.  One  thing  after  another, 
till  Lois  got  the  garden  all  planted ;  and  then  she 
was  just  as  busy  keeping  it  clean.  For  weeds, 
we  all  know,  do  thrive  as  unaccountably  in  the 
natural  as  in  the  spiritual  world.  It  cost  Lois 
hard  work  to  keep  them  under;  but  she  did  it. 
Nothing  would  have  tempted  her  to  bear  the 
reproach  of  them  among  her  vegetables  and  fruits. 
And  so  the  latter  had  a  good  chance,  and  throve. 
There  was  not  much  time  or  much  space  for 
flowers;  yet  Lois  had  a  few.  Bed  poppies  found 
growing  room  between  the  currant  bushes;  here 
and  there  at  a  corner  a  dahlia  got  leave  to  stand 
and  rear  its  stately  head.  Rose  bushes  were  set 


Lois's  GARDEN.  129 

wherever  a  rose  bush  could  be;  and  there  were 
some  balsams,  and  pinks,  and  balm,  and  larkspur, 
and  marigolds.  Not  many;  however  they  served 
to  refresh  Lois's  soul  when  she  went  to  pick  vege 
tables  for  dinner,  and  they  furnished  nosegays  for 
the  table  in  the  hall,  or  in  the  sitting  room, 
when  the  hot  weather  drove  the  family  out  of  the 
kitchen. 

Before  that  came  June  and  strawberries.  Lois 
picked  the  fruit  always.  She  had  been  a  good 
while  one  very  warm  afternoon  bending  down 
among  the  strawberry  beds,  and  had  brought  in 
a  great  bowl  full  of  fruit.  She  and  Madge  came 
together  to  their  room  to  wash  hands  and  get  in 
order  for  tea. 

"I  have  worked  over  all  that  butter,"  said 
Madge,  "and  skimmed  a  lot  of  milk.  I  must  churn 
again  to-morrow.  There  is  no  end  to  work !  " 

"No  end  to  it,"  Lois  assented.  "Did  you  see 
my  strawberries  ?  "~ 

"No." 

"They  are  splendid.  Those  Black  Princes  are 
doing  finely,  too.  If  we  have  rain  they  will  be 
superb." 

"  How  many  did  you  get  to-day  ?  " 

"Two  quarts,  and  more." 

"And  cherries  to  preserve  to-morrow.  Lois,  I 
get  tired  once  in  a  while  ! " 

"0  so  do  I;  but  I  always  get  rested  again." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  it  is  all  work, 
work;  day  in  and  day  out,  and  from  one  year's 


130  NOBODY. 

end  to  another.  There  is  no  let  up  to  it.  I  get 
tired  of  that" 

"  What  would  you  have  ?  " 

"I'd  like  a  little  play." 

"Yes,  but  in  a  certain  sense  I  think  it  is  all 
play." 

"  In  a  nonsensical  sense,"  said  Madge.  "  How 
can  work  be  play  ?  " 

"That's  according  to  how  you  look  at  it,"  Lois 
returned  cheerfully.  "  If  you  take  it  as  I  think  you 
can  take  it,  it  is  much  better  than  play." 

"  I  wish  you'd  make  me  understand  you,"  said 
Madge  discontentedly.  "  If  there  is  any  meaning 
to  your  words,  that  is." 

Lois  hesitated. 

"  I  like  work  anyhow  better  than  play,"  she  said. 
"But  then,  if  you  look  at  it  in  a  certain  way,  it 
becomes  much  better  than  play.  Don't  you  know, 
Madge,  I  take  it  all,  everything,  as  given  me  by 
the  Lord  to  do; — to  do  for  him; — and  I  do  it  so; 
and  that  makes  every  bit  of  it  all  pleasant." 

"  But  you  can't ! "  said  Madge  pettishly.  She 
was  not  a  pettish  person,  only  just  now  something 
in  her  sister's  words  had  the  effect  of  irritation. 

"Can't  what?" 

"Do  everything  for  the  Lord.  Making  butter, 
for  instance;  or  cherry  sweetmeats.  Ridiculous! 
And  nonsense." 

"  I  don't  mean  it  for  nonsense.  It  is  the  way  I 
do  my  garden  work  and  my  sewing." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lois!    The  garden  work  is 


Lois's  GARDEN.  131 

for  our  eating,  and  the  sewing  is  for  your  own  back, 
or  grandma's.  I  understand  religion,  but  I  don't 
understand  cant." 

"Madge,  it's  not  cant;  it's  the  plain  truth." 

"  Only  that  it  is  impossible." 

"  No.  You  do  not  understand  religion,  or  you 
would  know  how  it  is.  All  these  things  are  things 
given  us  to  do;  we  must  make  the  clothes  and  pre 
serve  the  cherries,  and  I  must  weed  strawberries, 
and  then  pick  strawberries,  and  all  the  rest.  God 
has  given  me  these  things  to  do,  and  I  do  them  for 
him." 

"  You  do  them  for  yourself,  or  for  grandma,  and 
for  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Yes,  but  first  for  Him.  Yes,  Madge,  I  do.  I  do 
every  bit  of  all  these  things  in  the  way  that  I  think 
will  please  and  honour  him  best — as  far  as  I  know 
how." 

"  Making  your  dresses !  " 

"  Certainly.  Making  my  dresses  so  that  I  may 
look,  as  near  as  I  can,  as  a  servant  of  Christ  in  my 
place  ought  to  look.  And  taking  things  in  that  way, 
Madge,  you  can't  think  how  pleasant  they  are ;  nor 
how  all  sorts  of  little  worries  fall  off.  I  wish  you 
knew,  Madge !  If  I  am  hot  and  tired  in  a  straw 
berry  bed,  and  the  thought  comes,  whose  servant  I 
am,  and  that  he  has  made  the  sun  shine  and  put 
me  to  work  in  it, — then  it's  all  right  in  a  minute, 
and  1  don't  mind  any  longer." 

Madge  looked  at  her,  with  eyes  that  were  half 
scornful,  half  admiring. 


132  NOBODY. 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  that  does  tempt  me," 
Lois  went  on,  her  eye  going  forth  to  the  world  out 
side  the  window,  or  to  a  world  more  distant  and  in 
tangible,  that  she  looked  at  without  seeing, — "  I  do 
sometimes  wish  I  had  time  to  read  and  learn." 

"  Learn ! "  Madge  echoed.     "  What  ?  " 

"  Loads  of  things.  I  never  thought  about  it  much, 
till  I  went  to  New  York  last  winter;  then,  seeing 
people  and  talking  to  people  that  were  different, 
made  me  feel  how  ignorant  I  was,  and  what  a 
pleasant  thing  it  would  be  to  have  knowledge — ed 
ucation — yes,  and  accomplishments.  I  have  the 
temptation  to  wish  for  that  sometimes ;  but  I  know 
it  is  a  temptation ;  for  if  I  was  intended  to  have  all 
those  things,  the  way  would  have  been  opened,  and 
it  is  not,  and  never  was.  Just  a  breath  of  longing 
comes  over  me  now  and  then  for  that ;  not  for  play, 
but  to  make  more  of  myself;  and  then  1  remember 
that  I  am  exactly  where  the  Lord  wants  me  to  be, 
and  as  he  chooses  for  merand  then  I  am  quite  con 
tent  again." 

"  You  never  said  so  before,"  the  other  sister  an 
swered,  now  sympathizingly. 

"No,"  said  Lois  smiling;  "why  should  I?  Only 
just  now  I  thought  I  would  confess." 

"  Lois,  I  have  wished  for  that  very  thing! " 

"Well,  maybe  it  is  good  to  have  the  wish.  If 
ever  a  chance  comes,  we  shall  know  we  are  meant 
to  use  it ;  and  we  won't  be  slow ! " 


CHAPTER  XL 

SUMMER   MOVEMENTS. 

ALL  things  in  the  world,  so  far  as  the  dwellers  in 
Shampuashuh  knew,  went  their  usual  course 
in  peace  for  the  next  few  months.  Lois  gathered 
her  strawberries,  and  Madge  made  her  currant  jelly. 
Peas  ripened,  and  green  corn  was  on  the  board,  and 
potatoes  blossomed,  and  young  beets  were  pulled, 
and  peaches  began  to  come.  It  was  a  calm,  gentle 
life  the  little  family  lived;  every  day  exceedingly 
like  the  day  before,  and  yet  every  day  with  some 
thing  new  in  it.  Small  pieces  of  novelty,  no  doubt; 
a  dish  of  tomatoes,  or  the  first  yellow  raspberries, 
or  a  new  pattern  for  a  dress,  or  a  new  receipt  for 
cake.  Or  they  walked  down  to  the  shore  and  dug 
clams,  some  fine  afternoon;  or  Mrs.  Dashiell  lent 
them  a  new  book ;  or  Mr.  Dashiell  preached  an  ex 
traordinary  sermon.  It  was  a  very  slight  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  tide  of  time ;  however,  it  served  to  keep 
everything  from  stagnation.  Then  suddenly,  at  the 
end  of  July,  came  Mrs.  Wishart's  summons  to  Lois 
to  join  her  on  her  way  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  "  I 
shall  go  in  about  a  week,"  the  letter  ran ;  "  and  I 

(133) 


134  NOBODY. 

want  you  to  meet  me  at  the  Shampuashuh  station; 
for  I  shall  go  that  way  to  Boston.  I  cannot  stop, 
but  I  will  have  your  place  taken  and  all  ready  for 
you.  You  must  come,  Lois,  for  I  cannot  do  with 
out  you ;  and  when  other  people  need  you,  you  know, 
you  never  hesitate.  Do  not  hesitate  now." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  hesitation,  however,  on 
one  part  and  another,  before  the  question  was 
settled. 

"  Lois  has  just  got  home,"  said  Charity.  "  I  don't 
see  what  she  should  be  going  again  for.  I  should 
like  to  know  if  Mrs.  Wishart  thinks  she  aint  wanted 
at  home ! " 

"  People  don't  think  about  it,"  said  Madge ;  "  only 
what  they  want  themselves.  But  it  is  a  fine  chance 
for  Lois." 

"  Why  don't  she  ask  you  ?  "  said  Charity. 

"  She  thought  Madge  would  enjoy  a  visit  to  her 
in  New  York  more,"  said  Lois.  "  So  she  said  to  me." 

"  And  so  I  would,"  cried  Madge.  "  I  don't  care 
for  a  parcel  of  little  islands  out  at  sea,  But  that 
would  just  suit  Lois.  What  sort  of  a  place  is  the- 
Isles  of  Shoals  anyhow  ?  " 

"Just  that,"  said  Lois;  "so  far  as  I  know.  A 
parcel  of  little  islands,  out  in  the  sea." 

"  Where  at  ?  "  said  Charity. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly." 

"  Get  the  map  and  look." 

"  They  are  too  small  to  be  down  on  the  map." 

"  What  is  Ellen  Wishart  wantin'  to  go  there  for  ? ' 
asked  Mrs.  Armadale. 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  135 

"0  she  goes  somewhere  every  year,  grandma; 
to  one  place  and  another;  and  I  suppose  she  likes 
novelty." 

"  That's  a  poor  way  to  live,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  But  I  suppose,  bein'  such  a  place,  it'll  be  sort  o' 
lonesome,  and  she  wants  you  for  company.  May 
be  she  goes  for  her  health." 

"I  think  quite  a  good  many  people  go  there, 
grandma." 

"  There  can't,  if  they're  little  islands  out  at  sea. 
Most  folks  wouldn't  like  that.  Do  you  want  to  go, 
Lois?" 

"  I  would  like  it,  very  much.  I  just  want  to  see 
what  they  are  like  grandmother.  I  never  did  see 
the  sea  yet." 

"'You  saw  it  yesterday,  when  we  went  for  clams,'* 
said  Charity  scornfully. 

"That  ?     0  no.     That's  not  the  sea,  Charity." 

"  Well  it's  mighty  near  it." 

It  seemed  to  be  agreed  at  last  that  Lois  should 
accept  her  cousin's  invitation;  and  she  made  her 
preparations.  She  made  them  with  great  delight. 
Pleasant  as  the  home  life  was,  it  was  quite  favour 
able  to  the  growth  of  an  appetite  for  change  and 
variety;  and  the  appetite  in  Lois  was  healthy  and 
strong.  The  sea  and  the  islands,  and  on  the  other 
hand  an  intermission  of  gardening  and  fruit  pick 
ing;  Shampuashuh  people  lost  sight  of  for  a  time, 
and  new,  new,  strange  forms  of  humanity  and  ways 
of  human  life;  the  prospect  was  happy.  And  a 
happy  girl  was  Lois,  when  one  evening  in  the  early 


136  NOBODY. 

part  of  August  she  joined  Mrs.  Wishart  in  the  night 
train  to  Boston.  That  lady  met  her  at  the  door  of 
the  drawing  room  car  and  led  her  to  the  little  com 
partment  where  they  were  screened  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you ! "  was  her  salutation. 
"  Dear  me,  how  well  you  look,  child  !  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  yourself?  " 

"  Getting  brown  in  the  sun,  picking  berries." 

"  You  are  not  brown  a  bit.  You  are  as  fair  as — 
what  ever  shall  I  compare  you  to?  Koses  are 
common." 

"  Nothing  better  than  roses,  though,"  said  Lois. 

"Well,  a  rose  you  must  be;  but  of  the  freshest 
and  sweetest.  We  don't  have  such  roses  in  New 
York.  Fact,  we  do  not.  I  never  see  anything  so 
fresh  there.  I  wonder  why  ?  " 

"  People  don't  live  out  of  doors  picking  berries," 
suggested  Lois. 

"  What  has  berry  picking  to  do  with  it  ?  My 
dear,  it  is  a  pity  we  shall  have  none  of  your  old  ad 
mirers  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals ;  but  I  cannot  promise 
you  one.  You  see,  it  is  off  the  track.  The  Caru- 
thers  are  going  to  Saratoga;  they  staid  in  town 
after  the  mother  and  son  got  back  from  Florida. 
The  Bentons  are  gone  to  Europe.  Mr.  Dillwyn — 
by  the  way,  was  he  one  of  your  admirers,  Lois  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "But  I 
have  a  pleasant  remembrance  of  him,  he  gave  us 
such  a  good  lunch  one  day.  I  am  very  glad  I  am  not 
going  to  see  anybody  I  ever  saw  before.  Where 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  137 

are  the  Isles  of  Shoals?  and  what  are  they,  that 
you  should  go  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  see  them — there's  nothing  to 
see,  unless  you  like  sea  and  rocks.  I  am  going  for 
the  air,  and  because  I  must  go  somewhere,  and  I 
am  tired  of  everywhere  else.  0  they're  out  in  the 
Atlantic — sea  all  round  them — queer,  barren  places. 
I  am  so  glad  I've  got  you,  Lois !  I  don't  know  a 
soul  that's  to  be  there — can't  guess  what  we  shall 
find;  but  I've  got  you,  and  I  can  get  along." 

"  Do  people  go  there  just  for  health  ?  " 

"  0  a  few,  perhaps ;  but  the  thing  is  what  I  am 
after — novelty;  they  are  hardly  the  fashion  yet." 

"That  is  the  very  oddest  reason  for  doing  or  not 
doing  things!"  said  Lois.  "Because  it's  the  fash 
ion  !  As  if  that  made  it  pleasant,  or  useful." 

"It  does!"  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "Of  course  it 
does.  Pleasant,  yes,  and  useful  too.  My  dear,  you 
don't  want  to  be  out  of  the  fashion  ?  " 

"Why  not,  if  the  fashion  does  not  agree  with  me?" 

"  0  my  dear,  you  will  learn.  Not  to  agree  with 
the  fashion,  is  to  be  out  with  the  world." 

"With  one  part  of  it,"  said  Lois  merrily. 

"Just  the  part  that  is  of  importance.  Never 
mind,  you  will  learn.  Lois,  I  am  so  sleepy,  I  can 
not  keep  up  any  longer.  I  must  curl  down  and 
take  a  nap.  I  just  kept  myself  awake  till  we  reached 
Shampuashuh.  You  had  better  do  as  I  do.  My 
dear,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

So  Mrs.  Wishart  settled  herself  upon  a  heap  of 
bags  and  wraps,  took  off  her  bonnet  and  went  to 


138  NOBODY. 

sleep.  Lois  did  not  feel  in  the  least  like  following 
her  example.  She  was  wide  awake  with  excite 
ment  and  expectation,  and  needed  no  help  of  enter 
tainment  from  anybody.  With  her  thoroughly 
sound  mind  and  body  and  healthy  appetites,  every 
detail  and  every  foot  of  the  journey  was  a  pleasure 
to  her;  even  the  corner  of  a  drawing  room  car  on 
a  night  train.  It  was  such  change  and  variety ! 
and  Lois  had  spent  all  her  life  nearly  in  one  narrow 
sphere  and  the  self-same  daily  course  of  life  and  ex 
perience.  New  York  had  been  one  great  break  in 
this  uniformity,  and  now  came  another.  Islands 
in  the  sea!  Lois  tried  to  fancy  what  they  would 
be  like.  So  much  resorted  to  already,  they  must 
be  very  charming;  and  green  meadows,  shadowing 
trees,  soft  shores  and  cosy  nooks  rose  up  before  her 
imagination.  Mr.  Caruthers  and  his  family  were 
at  Saratoga,  that  was  well;  but  there  would  be 
other  people,  different  from  the  Shampuashuh  type; 
and  Lois  delighted  in  seeing  new  varieties  of  hu 
mankind  as  well  as  new  portions  of  the  earth  where 
they  live.  She  sat  wide  awake  opposite  to  her 
sleeping  hostess,  and  made  an  entertainment  for 
herself  out  of  the  place  and  the  night  journey.  It 
was  a  star-lit,  sultry  night ;  the  world  outside  the 
hurrying  train  covered  with  a  wonderful  misty  veil, 
under  which  it  lay  half  revealed  by  the  heavenly 
illumination;  softj  mysterious,  vast;  a  breath  now 
and  then  whispering  of  nature's  luxuriant  abundance 
and  sweetness  that  lay  all  around,  out  there  under 
the  stars,  for  miles  and  hundreds  of  miles.  Lois 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  139 

looked  and  peered  out  sometimes,  so  happy  that  it 
was  not  Shampuashuh,  and  that  she  was  away,  and 
that  she  would  see  the  sun  shine  on  new  landscapes 
when  the  morning  came  round ;  and  sometimes  she 
looked  within  the  car,  and  marvelled  at  the  differ 
ent  signs  and  tokens  of  human  life  and  character 
that  met  her  there.  And  every  yard  of  the  way 
was  a  delight  to  her. 

Meanwhile,  how  weirdly  and  strangely  do  the 
threads  of  human  life  cross  and  twine  and  untwine 
in  this  world ! 

That  same  evening,  in  New  York,  in  the  Caru- 
thers  mansion  on  Twenty-Third  Street,  the  drawing 
room  windows  were  open  to  let  in  the  refresh 
ing  breeze  from  the  sea.  The  light  lace  curtains 
swayed  to  and  fro  as  the  wind  came  and  went,  but 
were  not  drawn ;  for  Mrs.  Caruthers  liked,  she  said, 
to  have  so  much  of  a  screen  between  her  and  the 
passers-by.  For  that  matter,  the  windows  were 
high  enough  above  the  street  to  prevent  all  danger 
of  any  one's  looking  in.  The  lights  were  burning 
low  in  the  rooms,  on  account  of  the  heat;  and 
within,  in  attitudes  of  exhaustion  and  helplessness 
sat  mother  and  daughter  in  their  several  easy 
chairs.  Tom  was  on  his  back  on  the  floor,  which 
being  nicely  matted  was  not  the  worst  place.  A 
welcome  break  to  the  monotony  of  the  evening 
was  the  entrance  of  Philip  Dilhvyn.  Tom  got  up 
from  the  floor  to  welcome  him,  and  went  back 
then  to  his  former  position. 

"  How  come  you  to  be  here  at  this  time  of  year  ?  " 


140  NOBODY. 

Dillwyn  asked.  "  It  was  mere  accident,  my  find 
ing  yon.  Should  never  have  thought  of  looking 
for  you.  But  by  chance  passing,  I  saw  that  win 
dows  were  open  and  lights  visible,  so  I  concluded 
that  something  else  might  be  visible  if  I  came  in." 

"We  are  only  just  passing  through,"  Julia  ex 
plained.  "  Going  to  Saratoga  to-morrow.  We  have 
only  just  come  from  Newport." 

"  What  drove  you  away  from  Newport  ?  this  is 
the  time  to  be  by  the  sea." 

"  0  who  cares  for  the  sea !  or  anything  else  ?  it's 
the  people ;  and  the  people  at  Newport  didn't  suit 
mother.  The  Benthams  were  there,  and  that  set; 
and  mother  don't  like  the  Benthams;  and  Miss 
Zagumski,  the  daughter  of  the  Russian  minister, 
was  there,  and  all  the  world  was  crazy  about  her. 
Nothing  was  to  be  seen  or  heard  but  Miss  Zagum 
ski,  and  her  dancing,  and  her  playing,  and  her 
singing.  Mother  got  tired  of  it." 

"  And  yet  Newport  is  a  large  place,"  remarked 
Philip. 

"  Too  large,"  Mrs.  Caruthers  answered. 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  find  at  Saratoga? " 

44  Heat,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers ; "  and  another  crowd." 

"I  think  you  will  not  be  disappointed,  if  this 
weather  holds." 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  more  comfortable  here ! " 
sighed  the  elder  lady.  "  Saratoga's  a  dreadfully  hot 
place !  Home  is  a  great  deal  more  comfortable." 

"  Then  why  not  stay  at  home  ?  Comfort  is  what 
you  are  after." 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  141 

"  0  but  one  can't !  'Everybody  goes  somewhere; 
and  one  must  do  as  everybody  does." 

"Why?" 

"  Philip,  what  makes  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  a  very  honest  ignorance  of  the 
answer  to  it." 

"  Why  one  must  do  as  everybody  does  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  lady's  tone  and  accent  had  implied  that  the 
answer  was  self-evident;  yet  it  was  not  given. 

"  Really,"— Philip  went  on.  "  What  should  hin 
der  you  from  staying  in  this  pleasant  house  part 
of  the  summer,  or  all  of  the  summer,  if  you  find 
yourselves  more  comfortable  here  ?  " 

"Being  comfortable  isn't  the  only  thing,"  said 
Julia. 

"No.  What  other  consideration  governs  the 
decision  ?  that  is  what  I  am  asking." 

"  Why  Philip,  there  is  nobody  in  town." 

"  That  is  better  than  company  you  do  not  like." 

"  I  wish  it  was  the  fashion  to  stay  in  town,"  said 
Mrs.  Caruthers.  "There  is  everything  here,  in 
one's  own  house,  to  make  the  heat  endurable,  and 
just  wh&t  we  miss  when  we  go  to  a  hotel.  Large 
rooms,  and  cool  nights,  and  clean  servants,  and 
gas,  and  baths — Hotel  rooms  are  so  stuffy." 

"After  all,  one  does  not  live  in  one's  rooms," 
said  Julia. 

"But,"  said  Philip,  returning  to  the  charge, 
"why  should  not  you,  Mrs.  Caruthers,  do  what 
you  like?  Why  should  you  be  displeased  in  Sara- 


142  NOBODY. 

toga,  or  anywhere,  merely  because  other  people 
are  pleased  there  ?  Why  not  do  as  you  like  ?  " 

"You  know  one  can't  do  as  one  likes  in  this 
world,"  Julia  returned. 

"  Why  riot,  if  one  can, — as  you  can  ?  "  said  Philip 
laughing 

"But  that's  ridiculous,"  said  Julia,  raising  her 
self  up  with  a  little  show  of  energy.  "  You  know 
perfectly  well,  Mr.  Dillwyn,  that  people  belonging 
to  the  world  must  do  as  the  rest  of  the  world  do. 
Nobody  is  in  town.  If  we  staid  here,  people  would 
get  up  some  unspeakable  story  to  account  for  our 
doing  it;  that  would  be  the  next  thing." 

"Dillwyn,  where  are  you  going?"  said  Tom 
suddenly  from  the  floor,  where  he  had  been  more 
uneasy  than  his  situation  accounted  for. 

"  I  don't  know — perhaps  I'll  take  your  train  and 
go  to  Saratoga  too.  Not  for  fear,  though." 

"That's  capital!"  said  Tom,  half  raising  him 
self  up  and  leaning  on  his  elbow.  "  I'll  turn  the 
care  of  my  family  over  to  you,  and  I'll  seek  the 
wilderness." 

"  What  wilderness?"  asked  his  sister  sharply. 

"  Some  wilderness — some  place  where  I  shall  not 
see  crinoline  nor  be  expected  to  do  the  polite 
thing.  I'll  go  for  the  sea,  I  guess." 

"  What  have  you  in  your  head,  Torn  ?  " 

"  Refreshment." 

"You've  just  come  from  the  sea." 

"  I've  just  come  from  the  sea  where  it  was 
fashionable.  Now  I'll  find  some  place  where  it  is 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  143 

unfashionable.  I  don't  favour  Saratoga  any  more 
than  you  do.  It's  a  jolly  stupid;  that's  what  it 
is." 

"  But  where  do  you  want  to  go,  Tom  ?  you  have 
some  place  in  your  head." 

"I'd  as  lief  go  off  for  the  Isles  of  Shoals  as 
anywhere,"  said  Tom  lying  down  again.  "They 
haven't  got  fashionable  yet.  I've  a  notion  to  see 
em  first." 

"  I  doubt  about  that,"  remarked  Philip  gravely. 
"  I  am  not  sure  but  the  Isles  of  Shoals  are  about 
the  most  distinguished  place  you  could  go  to." 

"Isles  of  Shoals.  Where  are  they?  and  what 
are  they  ?  "  Julia  asked. 

"A  few  little  piles  of  rock  out  in  the  Atlantic, 
on  which  it  spends  its  wrath  all  the  year  round; 
but  of  course  the  ocean  is  not  always  raging;  and 
when  it  is  not  raging,  it  smiles;  and  they  say  the 
smile  is  no  where  more  bewitching  than  at  the 
Isles  of  Shoals,"  Philip  answered. 

"  But  will  nobody  be  there  ?  " 

"  Nobody  you  would  care  about,"  returned  Tom. 

"Then  what'll  you  do ? " 

"Fish." 

"Tom!  you're  not  a  fisher.  You  needn't  pre 
tend  it." 

"  Sun  myself  on  the  rocks." 

"You  are  brown  enough  already." 

"  They  say,  everything  gets  bleached  there." 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  go.  But  I  couldn't  stand 
the  sea  and  solitude,  and  I  don't  believe  you 


144  NOBODY. 

can  stand  it.  Tom,  this  is  ridiculous.  You're  not 
serious  ?  " 

"  Not  often,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  this  time  I  am.  I 
am  going  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  If  Philip  will 
take  you  to  Saratoga,  I'll  start  to-morrow;  other 
wise  I  will  wait  till  I  get  you  rooms  and  see  you 
settled." 

"  Is  there  a  hotel  there  ?  " 

"  Something  that  does  duty  for  one,  as  I  under 
stand." 

"  Tom,  this  is  too  ridiculous,  and  vexatious,"  re 
monstrated  his  sister.  "  We  want  you  at  Saratoga." 

"Well,  it  is  nattering;  but  you  wanted  rne  at 
St.  Augustine  a  little  while  ago,  and  you  had  me. 
You  can't  always  have  a  fellow.  I'm  going  to  see 
the  Isles  of  Shoals  before  they're  the  rage.  I  want 
to  get  cooled  off,  for  once,  after  Florida  and  New 
port,  besides." 

"Isn't  that  the  place  where  Mrs.  Wishart  is 
gone,"  said  Philip  now. 

"  I  don't  know — yes,  I  believe  so." 

"  Mrs.  Wishart !  "  exclaimed  Julia  in  a  different 
tone.  "  She  gone  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals  ?  " 

"'Mrs.  Wishart !  "  Mrs.  Caruthers  echoed.  "  Has 
she  got  that  girl  with  her  ?  " 

Silence.  Then  Philip  remarked  with  a  laugh  that 
Tom's  plan  of  "cooling  off"  seemed  problematical. 

"  Tom,"  said  his  sister  solemnly,  "  is  Miss  Lothrop 
going  to  be  there  ?  " 

"Don't  know,  upon  my  word,"  said  Tom.  "I 
haven't  heard." 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  145 

"She  is,  and  that's  what  you're  going  for.  C 
Tom,  Tom!"  cried -his  sister  despairingly.  "Mr. 
Dillwyn,  what  shall  we  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Can't  easily  manage  a  fellow  of  his  size,  Miss 
Julia.  Let  him  take  his  chance." 

"  Take  his  chance  !     Such  a  chance ! " 

"Yes,  Philip,"  said  Tom's  mother;  "you  ought 
to  stand  by  us." 

"With  all  my  heart,  dear  Mrs.  Caruthers;  but  I 
am  afraid  I  should  be  a  weak  support.  Keally, 
don't  you  think  Tom  might  do  worse  ?  " 

"Worse?"  said  the  elder  lady;  "what  could  be 
worse  than  for  him  to  bring  such  a  wife  into  the 
house  ?  " 

Tom  gave  an  inarticulate  kind  of  snort  just  here, 
which  was  not  lacking  in  expression.  Philip  went 
on  calmly. 

"  Such  a  wife — "  he  repeated.  "  Mrs.  Caruthers, 
here  is  room  for  discussion.  Suppose  we  settle,  for 
example,  what  Tom,  or  anybody  situated  like  Tom, 
ought  to  look  for  and  insist  upon  finding,  in  a  wife. 
I  wish  you  and  Miss  Julia  would  make  out  the 
list  of  qualifications." 

"  Stuff! "  muttered  Tom.  "  It  would  be  hard  lines, 
if  a  fellow  must  have  a  wife  of  his  family's  choosing ! " 

"  His  family  can  talk  about  it,"  said  Philip,  "  and 
certainly  will.  Hold  your  tongue,  Tom.  I  want 
to  hear  your  mother." 

"  Why  Mr.  Dillwyn,"  said  the  lady,  "  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do ;  and  you  think  just  as  I  do  about 
it,  and  about  this  Miss  Lothrop." 


146  NOBODY. 

"  Perhaps ;  but  let  us  reason  the  matter  out. 
Maybe  it  will  do  Tom  good.  What  ought  he  to 
have  in  a  wife,  Mrs.  Caruthers  ?  and  we'll  try  to 
shew  him  he  is  looking  in  the  wrong  quarter." 

"  I'm  not  looking  anywhere  ! "  growled  Tom ; 
but  no  one  believed  him. 

"Well  Philip,"  Mrs.  Caruthers  began,  "he  ought 
to  marry  a  girl  of  good  family." 

"  Certainly.     By  '  good  family '  you  mean — ?  " 

"Everybody  knows  what  I  mean." 

"  Possibly  Tom  does  not." 

"  I  mean,  a  girl  that  one  knows  about,  and  that 
everybody  knows  about;  that  has  good  blood  in 
her  veins." 

"  The  blood  of  respectable  and  respected  ances 
tors,"  Philip  said. 

"  Yes !  that  is  what  I  mean.  I  mean,  that  have 
been  respectable  and  respected  for  a  long  time 
back — for  years  and  years." 

"You  believe  in  inheritance," 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers. 
"  I  believe  in  family." 

"  Well,  /believe  in  inheritance.  But  what  proof 
is  there  that  the  young  lady  of  whom  we  were 
speaking  has  no  family? " 

Julia  raised  herself  up  from  her  reclining  posi 
tion,  and  Mrs.  Caruthers  sat  suddenly  forward  in 
her  chair. 

"  Why  she  is  nobody  !  "  cried  the  first.  "  No 
body  knows  her,  nor  anything  about  her." 

"  Here — "  said  Philip. 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  147 

"  Here  !     Of  course.     Where  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,  just  listen  to  that !  "  Tom  broke  in.  "  I  tow 
should  anybody  know  her  here,  where  she  has  never 
lived !  But  that's  the  way—" 

"  I  suppose  a  Sandwich  Islander's  family  is  known 
in  the  Sandwich  Islands,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers.  "But 
what  good  is  that  to  us  ?  " 

"  Then  you  mean,  the  family  must  be  a  New  York 
family?" 

"N — o,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers  hesitatingly;  "I 
don't  mean  that  exactly.  There  are  good  South 
ern  families — " 

"And  good  Eastern  families ! "  put  in  Tom. 

"But  nobody  knows  anything  about  this  girl's 
family,"  said  the  ladies  both  in  a  breath. 

"Mrs.  Wishart  does,"  said  Philip.  "She  has 
even  told  me.  The  family  dates  back  to  the  begin 
ning  of  the  colony,  and  boasts  of  extreme  respec 
tability.  I  forget  how  many  judges  and  ministers  it 
can  count  up ;  and  at  least  one  governor  of  the  col 
ony  ;  and  there  is  no  spot  or  stain  upon  it  anywhere." 

There  was  silence. 

"  Go  on,  Mrs.  Caruthers.  What  else  should  Tom 
look  for  in  a  wife  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  merely  what  a  family  has  been, 
but  what  its  associations  have  been,"  said  Mrs. 
Caruthers. 

"These  have  evidently  been  respectable." 

"  But  it  is  not  that  only,  Philip.  We  want  the 
associations  of  good  society;  and  we  want  position. 
I  want  Tom  to  marry  a  woman  of  good  position." 


148  NOBODY. 

"Hm!"  said  Philip.  "This  lady  has  not  been 
accustomed  to  anything  that  you  would  call  '  so 
ciety  ' ;  and  *  position ' — But  your  son  has  position 
enough,  Mrs.  Caruthers.  He  can  stand  without 
much  help." 

"  Now  Philip,  don't  you  go  to  encourage  Tom  in 
this  mad  fancy.  It's  just  a  fancy.  The  girl  has 
nothing;  and  Tom's  wife  ought  to  be —  I  shall 
break  my  heart  if  Tom's  wife  is  not  of  good  family 
and  position,  and  good  manners,  and  good  educa 
tion.  That's  the  least  I  can  ask  foi\" 

"She  has  as  good  manners  as  anybody  you 
know !  "  said  Tom  flaring  up.  "  As  good  as  Julia's 
and  better." 

"I  sLould  say,  she  has  no  manner  whatever," 
remarked  Miss  Julia  quietly. 

"  What  is  '  manner '  ?  "  said  Tom  indignantly. 
"I  hate  it.  Manner!  They  all  have  'manner' — 
except  the  girls  who  make  believe  they  have  none ; 
and  their  'manner'  is  to  want  manner.  Stuff!  " 

"  But  the  girl  knows  nothing,"  persisted  Mrs. 
Caruthers. 

"  She  knows  absolutely  nothing" — Julia  confirmed 
this  statement. 

Silence. 

"  She  speaks  correct  English,"  said  Dillwyn. 
"That  at  least." 

"  English  ! — but  not  a  word  of  French  or  of  any 
other  language.  And  she  has  no  particular  use 
for  the  one  language  she  does  know;  she  cannot 
talk  about  anything.  How  do  you  know  she 


SUMMER  MOVEMENTS.  149 

speaks  good  grammar,  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  did  you  ever 
talk  with  her?" 

"Yes — "  said  Philip,  making  slow  admission. 
"And  I  think  you  are  mistaken  in  your  other 
statement;  she  can  talk  on  some  subjects.  Prob 
ably  you  did  not  hit  the  right  ones." 

"  Well,  she  does  not  know  anything,"  said  Miss 
Julia. 

"  That  is  bad.     Perhaps  it  might  be  mended." 

"  How  ?  Nonsense !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Dilhvyn;  but  you  cannot  make  an  accomplished 
woman  out  of  a  country  girl,  if  you  don't  begin 
before  she  is  twenty.  And  imagine  Tom  with  such 
a  wife !  and  me  with  such  a  sister ! " 

"  I  cannot  imagine  it.  Don't  you  see,  Tom,  you 
must  give  it  up  ?  "  Dillwyn  said  lightly. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals  and  think  about 
that,"  said  Tom.  Wherewith  he  got  up  and  went 
off. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Julia  then,  "  he's  going  to  that 
place  to  meet  that  girl.  Either  she  is  to  be  there 
with  Mrs.  Wishart,  or  he  is  reckoning  to  see  her 
by  the  way;  and  the  Isles  of  Shoals  are  just  a  blind. 
And  the  only  thing  left  for  you  and  me  is  to  go 
too,  and  be  of  the  party !  " 

"  Tom  don't  want  us  along — "  said  Tom's  mother. 

"  Of  course  he  don't  want  us  along;  and  I  am  sure 
we  don't  want  it  either;  but  it  is  the  only  thing 
left  for  us  to  do.  Don't  you  see  ?  She'll  be  there, 
or  he  can  stop  at  her  place  by  the  way,  going  and 
coming;  maybe  Mrs.  Wishart  is  asking  her  on 


150  NOBODY. 

purpose,  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised,  and  they'll 
make  up  the  match  between  them.  It  would  be  a 
thing  for  the  girl,  to  marry  Tom  Caruthers ! " 

Mrs.  Caruthers  groaned,  I  suppose  at  the  double 
prospect,  before  her  and  before  Tom.  Philip  was 
silent.  Miss  Julia  went  on  discussing  and  arrang 
ing;  till  her  brother  returned. 

"  Tom,"  said  she  cheerfully,  "  we've  been  talking 
over  matters;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do — if 
you  won't  go  with  us,  we  will  go  with  you ! " 

"Where?" 

'*  Why,  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  of  course." 

"  You  and  mother !  "  said  Tom. 

"Yes.  There  is  no  fun  in  going  about  alone. 
We  will  go  along  with  you." 

"  What  on  earth  will  you  do  at  a  place  like  that  ?  " 

"  Keep  you  from  being  lonely." 

"  Stuff,  Julia !  You  will  wish  yourself  back  be 
fore  you've  been  there  an  hour;  and  I  tell  you, 
I  want  to  go  fishing.  What  would  become  of 
mother,  landed  on  a  bare  rock  like  that,  with  no 
body  to  speak  to  and  nothing  but  crabs  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Crabs ! "  Julia  echoed.  Philip  burst  into  a 
laugh. 

"  Crabs  and  muscles,"  said  Tom.  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  you'll  get  anything  else." 

"  But  is  Mrs.  Wishart  gone  there  ?  " 

"  Philip  says  so." 

"Mrs.  Wishart  isn't  a  fool." 

And  Tom  was  unable  to  overthrow  this  argument. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

APPLEDORE. 

IT  was  a  very  bright,  warm  August  day  when  Mrs. 
Wishart  and  her  young  companion  steamed 
over  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  It 
was  Lois's  first  sight  of  the  sea,  for  the  journey 
from  New  York  had  been  made  by  land;  and  the 
ocean,  however  still,  was  nothing  but  a  most  won 
derful  novelty  to  her.  She  wanted  nothing,  she 
could  well  nigh  attend  to  nothing,  but  the  move 
ments  and  developments  of  this  vast  and  mysterious 
Presence  of  nature.  Mrs.  Wishart  was  amused  and 
yet  half  provoked.  There  was  no  talk  in  Lois; 
nothing  to  be  got  out  of  her;  hardly. any  attention 
to  be  had  from  her.  She  sat  by  the  vessel's  side 
and  gazed,  with  a  brow  of  grave  awe  and  eyes  of 
submissive  admiration;  rapt,  absorbed,  silent,  and 
evidently  glad.*  Mrs.  Wishart  was  provoked  at 
her,  and  envied  her. 

"  What  do  you  find  in  the  water,  Lois  ?  " 
"Oh,  the  wonder  of  it!" — said  the  girl  with  a 
breath  of  rapture. 

"  Wonder  ?  what  wonder  ?     I  suppose  everything 
(151) 


152  NOBODY. 

is  wonderful,  if  you  look  at  it.  What  do  you  see 
there  that  seems  so  very  wonderful  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Wishart.  It  is  so  great! 
and  it  is  so  beautiful !  and  it  is  so  awful !  " 

"Beautiful?"  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "I  confess  I 
do  not  see  it.  I  suppose  it  is  your  gain,  Lois. 
Yes,  it  is  awful  enough  in  a  storm,  but  not  to-day. 
The  sea  is  quiet." 

Quiet!  with  those  low -rolling,  majestic  soft 
billows.  The  quiet  of  a  lion  asleep  with  his  head 
upon  his  paws.  Lois  did  not  say  what  she  thought. 

"And  you  have  never  seen  the  sea-shore  yet," 
Mrs.  Wishart  went  on.  "Well,  you  will  have 
enough  of  the  sea  at  the  Isles.  And  those  are 
they,  I  fancy,  yonder.  Are  those  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  ? "  she  asked  a  passing  man  of  the  crew ; 
and  was  answered  with  a  rough  voiced,  "Yaw, 
mum ;  they  be  th'  oisles." 

Lois  gazed  now  at  those  distant  brown  spots,  as  the 
vessel  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Brown  spots  they 
remained,  and  to  her  surprise,  small  brown  spots. 
Nejirer  and  nearer  views  only  forced  the  conviction 
deeper.  The  Isles  seemed  to  be  merely  some  rough 
rocky  projections  from  old  Ocean's  bed,  too  small 
to  have  beauty,  too  rough  to  have  value.  Were 
those  the  desired  Isles  of  Shoals  ?  Lois  felt  deep 
disappointment.  Little  bits  of  bare  rock  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea;  nothing  more.  No  trees,  she  was 
sure ;  as  the  light  fell  she  could  even  see  no  green. 
Why  would  they  not  be  better  relegated  to  Ocean's 
domain,  from  which  they  were  only  saved  by  a 


APPLEDORE.  153 

few  feet  of  upheaval?  why  should  anybody  live 
there  ?  and  still  more,  why  should  anybody  make 
a  pleasure  visit  there  ? 

"1  suppose  the  people  are  all  fishermen?"  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Wishart. 

"  I  suppose  so.  0  there  is  a  house  of  entertain 
ment — a  sort  of  hotel." 

"  How  many  people  live  there  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know.  A  handful,  I  should 
think  by  the  look  of  the  place.  What  tempts 
them,  I  don't  see." 

Nor  did  Lois.  She  was  greatly  disappointed. 
All  her  fairy  visions  were  fled.  No  meadows,  no 
shady  banks,  no  soft  green  dales;  nothing  she  had 
ever  imagined  in  connection  with  country  loveliness. 
Her  expectations  sank  down,  collapsed,  and  van 
ished  for  ever. 

She  shewed  nothing  of  all  this.  She  helped  Mrs. 
Wishart  gather  her  small  baggage  together  and 
followed  her  on  shore,  with  her  usual  quiet  thought- 
fulness;  saw  her  established  in  the  hotel  and  as 
sisted  her  to  get  things  a  little  in  order.  But  then, 
when  the  elder  lady  lay  down  to  "  catch  a  nap,"  as 
she  said,  before  tea,  Lois  seized  her  flat  hat  and 
fled  out  of  the  house. 

There  was  grass  around  it,  and  sheep  and  cows 
to  be  seen.  Alas,  no  trees.  But  there  were  bushes 
certainly  growing  here  and  there,  and  Lois  had 
not  gone  far  before  she  found  a  flower.  With  that 
in  her  hand  she  sped  on,  out  of  the  little  grassy 
vale,  upon  the  rocks  that  surrounded  it,  and  over 


154  NOBODY. 

them,  till  she  caught  sight  of  the  sea.  Then  she 
made  her  way,  as  she  could,  over  the  roughnesses 
and  hindrances  of  the  rocks,  till  she  got  near  the 
edge  of  the  island  at  that  place ;  and  sat  do  wn  a  little 
above  where  the  billows  of  the  Atlantic  were  roll 
ing  in.  The  wide  sea  line  was  before  her,  with  its 
mysterious  and  infinite  depth  of  colour ;  at  her  feet 
the  waves  were  coming  in  and  breaking,  slow  and 
gently  to-day,  yet  every  one  seeming  to  make  an  in 
vasion  of  the  little  rocky  domain  which  defied  it  and 
to  retire  unwillingly,  foiled,  beaten,  and  broken,  to 
gather  new  forces  and  come  on  again  for  a  new  attack. 
Lois  watched  them,  fascinated  by  their  persistence, 
their  sluggish  power,  and  yet  their  ever  recurring 
discomfiture;  admired  the  changing  colours  and 
hues  of  the  water,  endlessly  varying,  cool  and  love 
ly  and  delicate,  contrasting  with  the  wet  washed 
rocks  and  the  dark  line  of  sea  weed  lying  where 
high  tide  had  cast  it  up.  The  breeze  blew  in  her 
face,  gently,  but  filled  with  freshness,  life,  and 
pungency  of  the  salt  air;  sea  birds  flew  past  hither 
and  thither,  sometimes  uttering  a  cry;  there  was 
no  sound  in  earth  or  heaven  but  that  of  the  water 
and  the  wild  birds.  And  by  and  by,  the  silence, 
and  the  broad  freedom  of  nature,  and  the  sweet 
freshness  of  the  life-giving  breeze,  began  to  take 
effect  upon  the  watcher.  She  drank  in  the  air  in 
deep  breaths ;  she  watched  with  growing  enjoyment 
the  play  of  light  and  colour  which  offered  such  an 
endless  variety;  she  let  slip,  softly  and  insensibly, 
every  thought  and  consideration  which  had  any  sort 


APPLEDORE.  155 

of  care  attached  to  it ;  her  heart  grew  light,  as  her 
lungs  took  in  the  salt  breath,  which  had  upon  her 
somewhat  the  effect  of  champagne.  Lois  was  at 
no  time  a  very  heavy-hearted  person ;  and  I  lack  a 
similitude'  which  should  fitly  image  the  elastic 
bound  her  spirits  made  now.  She  never  stirred 
from  her  seat,  till  it  suddenly  came  into  her  head 
to  remember  that  there  might  be  dinner  or  supper 
in  prospect  somewhere.  She  rose  then  and  made 
her  way  back  to  the  hotel,  where  she  found  Mrs. 
Wishart  just  arousing  from  her  sleep. 

"  Well,  Lois—"  said  the  lady,  with  the  sleep  still 
in  her  voice, — "  where  have  you  been  ?  and  what 
have  you  got  ?  and  what  sort  of  a  place  have  we 
come  to  ?  " 

"Look  at  that,  Mrs.  Wishart!  " 

"What's  that?  A  white  violet!  Violets  here, 
on  these  rocks  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  white  violet  ?  Look 
at  the  size  of  it,  and  the  colour  of  it.  And  here's 
pimpernel.  And  O,  Mrs.  Wishart,  I  am  so  glad 
we  came  here  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do !  It 
is  just  delightful.  The  air  is  the  best  air  I  ever 
saw." 

"Can  you  see  it,  my  dear?  Well,  I  am  glad  you 
are  pleased.  What's  that  bell  for,  dinner  or  supper? 
I  suppose  all  the  meals  here  are  alike.  Let  us  go 
down  and  see." 

Lois  had  an  excellent  appetite. 

"  This  fish  is  very  good,  Mrs.  Wishart." 

"  0   my   dear,    it  is  just   fish !     You  are  in   a 


156  NOBODY. 

mood  to  glorify  everything.  I  am  envious  of  you, 
Lois." 

"  But  it  is  really  capital ;  it  is  so  fresh.  I  don't 
believe  you  can  get  such  blue  fish  in  New  York." 

"My  dear,  it  is  your  good  appetite.  I  wish  I 
was  as  hungry,  for  anything,  as  you  are." 

44  Is  it  Mrs.  Wishart?"  asked  a  lady  who  sat 
opposite  them  at  the  table.  She  spoke  politely, 
with  an  accent  of  hope  and  expectation.  Mrs. 
Wishart  acknowledged  the  identity. 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  meet  you.  I  was  afraid  I 
might  find  absolutely  no  one  here  that  I  knew.  I 
was  saying  only  the  other  day — three  days  ago; 
this  is  Friday,  isn't  it  ?  yes ;  it  was  last  Tuesday. 
I  was  saying  to  my  sister  after  our  early  dinner — 
we  always  have  early  dinner  at  home,  and  it  comes 
quite  natural  here — we  were  sitting  together  after 
dinner,  and  talking  about  my  coming.  I  have 
been  meaning  to  come  ever  since  three  years  ago ; 
wanting  to  make  this  trip,  and  never  could  get 
away,  until  this  summer  things  opened  out  to  let 
me.  I  was  saying  to  Lottie,  I  was  afraid  I  should 
find  nobody  here  that  I  could  speak  to;  and  when 
I  saw  you,  I  said  to  myself,  Can  that  be  Mrs. 
Wishart? — I  am  so  very  glad.  You  have  just 
come  ?  " 

"  To-day," — Mrs.  Wishart  assented. 

"  Came  by  water  ?  " 

"  From  Portsmouth." 

<»  Yes — ha,  ha ! "  said  the  affable  lady.  "  Of  course. 
You  could  not  well  help  it.  But  from  New  York  ?  " 


APPLEDORE.  157 

"By  railway.     I  had  occasion  to  come  by  land." 

"  I  prefer  it  always.  In  a  steamer  you  never  know 
what  will  happen  to  you.  If  it's  good  weather,  you 
may  have  a  pleasant  time;  but  you  never  can  tell. 
I  took  the  steamer  once  to  go  to  Boston — I  mean, 
to  Stonington,  you  know;  and  the  boat  was  so 
loaded  with  freight  of  some  sort  or  other  that  she 
was  as  low  down  in  the  water  as  she  could  be  and 
be  safe;  and  I  didn't  think  she  was  safe.  And  we 
went  so  slowly !  and  then  we  had  a  storm,  a  regu 
lar  thunderstorm  and  squall,  and  the  rain  poured 
in  torrents,  and  the  Sound  was  rough,  and  people 
were  sick,  and  I  was  very  glad  and  thankful  when 
we  got  to  Stonington.  I  thought  it  would  never 
be  for  pleasure  that  I  would  take  a  boat  again." 

"The  Fall  Kiver  boats  are  the  best." 

"  I  dare  say  they  are,  but  I  hope  to  be  allowed 
to  keep  clear  of  them  all.  You  had  a  pleasant 
morning  for  the  trip  over  from  Portsmouth." 

"  Very  pleasant." 

"It  is  such  a  gain  to  have  the  sea  quiet!  It 
roars  and  beats  here  enough  in  the  best  of  times. 
I  am  sjire  I  hope  there  will  not  a  storm  come  while 
we  are  here ;  for  I  should  think  it  must  be  dread 
fully  dreary.  It's  all  sea  here,  you  know." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  what  a  storm  here  is  like," 
Lois  remarked. 

"  0  don't  wish  that ! "  cried  the  lady,  "  or  your 
wish  may  bring  it.  Don't  think  me  a  heathen," 
she  added  laughing;  "but  I  have  known  such 
queer  things.  I  must  tell  you — " 


158  NOBODY. 

"You  never  knew  a  wish  bring  fair  weather?" 
said  Lois  smiling,  as  the  lady  stopped  for  a  mouth 
ful  of  omelet. 

"0  no,  not  fair  weather;  I  am  sure,  if  it  did,  we 
should  have  fair  weather  a  great  deal  more  than 
we  do.  But  I  was  speaking  of  a  storm,  and  I  must 
tell  you  what  I  have  seen. — These  fish  are  very 
deliciously  cooked ! " 

"They  understand  fish,  I  suppose,  here,"  said 
Lois. 

"  We  were  going  down  the  bay,  to  escort  some 
friends  who  were  going  to  Europe.  There  was 
my  cousin  Llewellyn  and  his  wife,  and  her  sister, 
and  one  or  two  others  in  the  party;  and  Lottie  and 
I  went  to  see  them  off.  I  always  think  it's  rather 
a  foolish  thing  to  do,  for  why  shouldn't  one  say 
good  bye  at  the  water's  edge,  when  they  go  on 
board,  instead  of  making  a  journey  of  miles  out  to 
sea  to  say  it  there  ? — but  this  time  Lottie  wanted 
to  go.  She  had  never  seen  the  ocean,  except  from 
the  land ;  and  you  know  that  is  very  different ;  so 
we  went.  Lottie  always  likes  to  see  all  she  can, 
and  is  never  satisfied  till  she  has  got  to  the  bottom 
of  everything — " 

"  She  would  be  satisfied  with  something  less  than 
that  in  this  case  ?  "  said  Lois. 

"  Hey  ?  She  was  satisfied,"  said  the  lady,  not 
apparently  catching  Lois's  meaning;  "she  was  more 
delighted  with  the  sea  than  I  was;  for  though  it 
was  quiet,  they  said,  there  was  unquietness  enough 
to  make  a  good  deal  of  motion;  the  vessel  went 


APPLEDORE.  159 

sailing  up  and  down  a  succession  of  small  rolling 
hills,  and  I  began  to  think  there  was  nothing 
steady  mside  of  me,  any  more  than  oi^side.  I  never 
can  bear  to  be  rocked,  in  any  shape  or  form." 

"  You  must  have  been  a  troublesome  baby,"  said 
Lois. 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  was ;  naturally  I  have 
forgotten ;  but  since  I  have  been  old  enough  to  think 
for  myself  I  never  could  bear  rocking  chairs.  I  like 
an  easy  chair — as  easy  as  you  please — but  I  want 
it  to  stand  firm  upon  its  four  legs.  So  I  did  not 
enjoy  the  water  quite  as  well  as  my  sister  did. 
But  she  grew  enthusiastic;  she  wished  she  was 
going  all  the  way  over,  and  I  told  her  she  would 
have  to  drop  me  at  some  wayside  station — " 

"Where?"  said  Lois,  as  the  lady  stopped  to 
carry  her  coffee  cup  to  her  lips.  The  question 
seemed  not  to  have  been  heard. 

'*  Lottie  wished  she  could  see  the  ocean  in  a 
mood  not  quite  so  quiet;  she  wished  for  a  storm; 
she  said  she  wished  a  little  storm  would  get  up 
before  we  got  home,  that  she  might  see  how  the 
waves  looked.  I  begged  and  prayed  her  not  to 
say  so,  for  our  wishes  often  fulfil  themselves.  Isn't 
it  extraordinary  how  they  do  ?  Haven't  you  often 
observed  it,  Mrs.  Wishart  ?  " 

"In  cases  where  wishes  could  take  effect,"  re 
turned  that  lady.  "  In  the  case  of  the  elements,  1 
do  not  see  how  they  could  do  that." 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  the  other;  "I 
have  observed  it  so  often." 


160  NOBODY. 

"You  call  me  by  name,"  Mrs.  Wishart  went  on 
rather  hastily ;  "  and  I  have  been  trying  in  vain  to 
recall  yours.  If  I  had  met  you  anywhere  else,  of 
course  I  should  be  at  no  loss ;  but  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  one  expects  to  see  nobody,  and  one  is  sur 
prised  out  of  one's  memory." 

"  I  am  never  surprised  out  of  my  memory,"  said 
the  other  chuckling.  "I  am  poor  enough  in  all 
other  ways,  I  am  sure,  but  my  memory  is  good. 
I  can  tell  you  where  I  first  saw  you.  You  were 
at  the  Gatskill  House,  with  a  large  party;  my 
brother-in-law,  Dr.  Salisbury,  was  there,  and  he 
had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you.  It  was  two 
years  ago." 

"I  recollect  being  at  the  Catskill  House  very 
well,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart,  "and  of  course  it  was 
there  I  became  acquainted  with  you;  but  you  must 
excuse  me,  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  for  forgetting 
all  my  connections  with  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"01  am  sure  you  are  very  excusable,"  said  Dr. 
Salisbury's  sister-in-law.  "  I  am  delighted  to  meet 
you  again.  I  think  one  is  particularly  glad  of  a 
friend's  face  where  one  had  riot  expected  to  see 
it;  and  I  really  expected  nothing  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals — but  sea  air." 

"  You  came  for  sea  air  ?  " 

"Yes,  to  get  it  pure.  To  be  sure,  Coney  Island 
beach  is  not  far  off — for  we  live  in  Brooklyn ;  but 
I  wanted  the  sea  air  wholly  sea  air — quite  un 
mixed;  and  at  Coney  Island,  somehow  New  York 
is  so  near,  I  couldn't  fancy  it  would  be  the  same 


APPLEDORE.  161 

thing.  I  don't  want  to  smell  the  smoke  of  it.  And 
I  was  curious  about  this  place  too ;  and  I  have  so 
little  opportunity  for  travelling,  I  thought  it  was  a 
pity  now  when  I  had  the  opportunity,  not  to  take 
the  utmost  advantage  of  it.  They  laughed  at  me 
at  home,  but  I  said  no,  I  was  going  to  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  or  nowhere.  And  now  I  am  very  glad  I 
came." — 

"  Lois,"  Mrs.  Wishart  said  when  they  went  back 
to  their  own  room,  "I  don't  know  that  woman 
from  Adam.  I  have  not  the  least  recollection 
of  ever  seeing  her.  I  know  Dr.  Salisbury — and 
he  might  be  anybody's  brother-in-law.  I  wonder 
if  she  will  keep  that  seat  opposite  us  ?  Because  she 
is  worse  than  a  smoky  chimney ! " 

"  0  no,  not  that,"  said  Lois.     "  She  amuses  me." 

"  Everything  amuses  you,  you  happy  creature ! 
You  look  as  if  the  fairies  that  wait  upon  young 
girls  had  made  you  their  special  care.  Did  you 
ever  read  the  '  Rape  of  the  Lock '  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  read  anything  " — Lois  answered, 
a  little  soberly. 

"Never  mind;  you  have  so  much  the  more  pleas 
ure  before  you.  But  the  *  Eape  of  the  Lock ' — in 
that  story  there  is  a  young  lady,  a  famous  beau 
ty,  whose  dressing-table  is  attended  by  sprites  or 
fairies.  One  of  them  colours  her  lips;  another 
hides  in  the  folds  of  her  gown;  another  tucks 
himself  away  in  a  curl  of  her  hair. — You  make 
me  think  of  that  young  lady." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  SUMMER   HOTEL. 

MRS.  WISH  ART  was  reminded  of  Belinda  again 
the  next  morning.  Lois  was  beaming.  She 
managed  to  keep  their  talkative  neighbour  in  order 
during  breakfast;  and  then  proposed  to  Mrs.  Wish- 
art  to  take  a  walk.  But  Mrs.  Wishart  excused 
herself,  and  Lois  set  off  alone.  After  a  couple  of 
hours  she  came  back  with  her  hands  full. 

"0  Mrs.  Wishart!"  she  burst  forth,— "this  is 
the  very  loveliest  place  you  ever  saw  in  your  life ! 
I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  bringing  me ! 
What  can  I  do  to  thank  you  ?  " 

"  What  makes  it  so  delightful  ?"  said  the  elder 
lady  smiling  at  her.  "There  is  nothing  here  but 
the  sea  and  the  rocks.  You  have  found  the  phi 
losopher's  stone,  you  happy  girl !  " 

"The  philosopher's  stone?"  said  Lois.  "That 
was  what  Mr.  Dillwyn  told  me  about." 

"Philip?     1  wish  he  was  here." 

"It  would  be  nice  for  you.  I  don't  want  any 
body.  The  place  is  enough." 

"  What  have  you  found,  child  ?  " 

(162) 


A  SUMMER  HOTEL.  163 

"  Flowers — and  mosses — and  shells.  0  the  flow 
ers  are  beautiful.  But  it  isn't  the  flowers,  nor  any 
one  thing;  it  is  the  place.  The  air  is  wonderful; 
and  the  sea — 0  the  sea  is  a  constant  delight  to  me." 

"  The  philosopher's  stone ! "  repeated  the  lady. 
"  What  is  it,  Lois  ?  You  are  the  happiest  creature 
I  ever  saw. — You  find  pleasure  in  everything." 

"Perhaps  it  is  that,"  said  Lois  simply.  "Be 
cause  I  am  happy." 

"  But  what  business  have  yon  to  be  so  happy  ? 
— living  in  a  corner  like  Shampuashuh.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Lois,  but  it  is  a  corner  of  the  earth. 
What  makes  you  happy  ?  " 

Lois  answered  lightly,  that  perhaps  it  was  easier 
to  be  happy  in  a  corner  than  in  a  wide  place;  and 
went  off  again.  She  would  not  give  Mrs.  Wishart 
an  answer  she  could  by  no  possibility  understand. 

Some  time  later  in  the  day,  Mrs.  Wishart  too 
becoming  tired  of  the  monotony  of  her  own  room, 
descended  to  the  piazza;  and  was  sitting  there 
when  the  little  steamboat  arrived  with  some  new 
guests  for  the  hotel.  She  watched  one  particular 
party  approaching.  A  young  lady  in  advance, 
attended  by  a  gentleman ;  then  another  pair  fol 
lowing,  an  older  lady,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
cavalier  whom  Mrs.  Wishart  recognized  first  of 
them  all.  She  smiled  to  herself. 

"  Mrs.  Wishart ! "  Julia  Caruthers  exclaimed  as  she 
came  upon  the  verandah.  "  You  are  here.  That 
is  delightful !  Mamma,  here  is  Mrs.  Wishart.  But 
whatever  did  bring  you  here  ?  I  am  reminded  of 


164  NOBODY. 

Capt.  Cook's  voyages,  that  I  used  to  read  when  I 
was  a  child,  and  I  fancy  I  have  come  to  one  of  his 
savage  islands;  only  I  don't  see  the  salvages.  They 
will  appear,  perhaps.  But  I  don't  see  anything 
else;  cocoanut  trees,  or  palms,  or  bananas,  the  tale 
of  which  used  to  make  my  mouth  water.  There 
are  no  trees  here  at  all,  that  I  can  see,  nor  any 
thing  else.  What  brought  you  here,  Mrs.  Wis 
hart?  May  I  present  Mr.  Lenox. — What  brought 
you  here,  Mrs.  Wishart  ?  " 

"What  brought  you  here?"  was  the  smiling 
retort.  The  answer  was  prompt. 

"Tom." 

Mrs.  Wishart  looked  at  Tom,  who  came  up  and 
paid  his  respects  in  marked  form ;  while  his  mother, 
as  if  exhausted,  sank  down  on  one  of  the  chairs. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Tom,"  she  repeated.  "  Nothing 
would  do  for  Tom  but  the  Isles  of  Shoals;  and  so, 
Julia  and  I  had  to  follow  in  his  train.  In  my 
grandmother's  days  that  would  have  been  differ 
ent.  What  is  here,  dear  Mrs.  Wishart,  besides 
you  ?  You  are  not  alone  ?  " 

"Not  quite.  I  have  brought  my  little  friend, 
Lois  Lothrop  with  me;  and  she  thinks  the  Isles 
of  Shoals  the  most  charming  place  that  was  ever 
discovered,  by  Capt.  Cook  or  anybody  else." 

"  Ah,  she  is  here ! "  said  Mrs.  Caruthers  drily ; 
while  Julia  and  Mr.  Lenox  exchanged  glances. 
"  Much  other  company  ?  " 

"  Not  much;  and  what  there  is  comes  more  from 
New  Hampshire  than  New  York,  I  fancy." 


A  SUMMER   HOTEL.  165 

"  Ah ! — And  what  else  is  here  then,  that  anybody 
should  come  here  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  You  must  ask  Miss  Lothrop. 
Yonder  she  comes.  She  has  been  exploring  ever 
since  five  o'clock,  I  believe." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  accustomed  to  get  up  at  that 
hour,"  remarked  the  other,  as  if  the  fact  involved 
a  good  deal  of  disparagement.  And  then  they 
were  all  silent,  and  watched  Lois,  who  was  slowly 
and  unconsciously  approaching  her  reviewers.  Her 
hands  were  again  full  of  different  gleanings  from 
the  wonderful  wilderness  in  which  she  had  been 
exploring;  and  she  came  with  a  slow  step,  still 
busy  with  them  as  she  walked.  Her  hat  had 
fallen  back  a  little ;  the  beautiful  hair  was  a  trifle 
disordered,  shewing  so  only  the  better  its  rich 
abundance  and  exquisite  colour;  the  face  it  framed 
arid  crowned  was  fair  and  flushed,  intent  upon  her 
gains  from  rock  and  meadow — for  there  was  a 
little  bit  of  meadow  ground  at  Appledore; — and 
so  happy  in  its  sweet  absorption  that  an  involun 
tary  tribute  of  homage  to  its  beauty  was  wrung 
from  the  most  critical.  Lois  walked  with  a  light, 
steady  step;  her  careless  bearing  was  free  and 
graceful;  her  dress  was  not  very  fashionable,  but 
entirely  proper  for  the  place;  all  eyes  consented 
to  this,  and  then  all  eyes  came  back  to  the  face. 
It  was  so  happy,  so  pure,  so  unconscious  and  un 
shadowed;  the  look  was  of  the  sort  that  one  does 
not  see  in  the  assemblies  of  the  world's  pleasure- 
seekers;  nor  ever  but  in  the  faces  of  heaven's 


166  NOBODY. 

pleasure-finders.  She  was  a  very  lovely  vision, 
and  somehow  all  the  little  group  on  the  piazza 
with  one  consent  kept  silence,  watching  her  as  she 
came.  She  drew  near  with  busy,  pleased  thoughts 
and  leisurely,  happy  steps,  and  never  looked  up, 
till  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  to  the 
piazza.  Nor  even  then;  ske  had  picked  up  her 
skirt  and  mounted  several  steps  daintily,  before 
she  heard  her  name  and  raised  her  eyes.  Then 
her  face  changed.  The  glance  of  surprise,  it  is 
true,  was  immediately  followed  by  a  smile  of  civil 
greeting;  but  the  look  of  rapt  happiness  was  gone; 
and  somehow  nobody  on  the  piazza  felt  the  change 
to  be  flattering.  She  accepted  quietly  Tom's  hand, 
given  partly  in  greeting,  partly  to  assist  her  up 
the  last  steps,  and  faced  the  group  who  were 
regarding  her. 

"How  delightful  to  find  you  here,  Miss  Lothrop! " 
said  Julia, — "  and  how  strange  that  people  should 
meet  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals." 

"  Why  is  it  strange  ?  " 

"  0,  because  there  is  really  nothing  to  come  here 
for,  you  know.  I  don't  know  how  we  happen  to 
be  here  ourselves. — Mr.  Lenox,  Miss  Lothrop. — 
What  have  you  found  in  this  desert  ?  " 

"You  have  been  spoiling  Appledore?"  added 
Tom. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  done  any  harm,"  said 
Lois  innocently.  "  There  is  enough  more,  Mr. 
Caruthers." 

"  Enough  of  what  ?  "  Tom  inquired,  while  Julia 


A  SUMMER   HOTEL.  167 

and  her  friend  exchanged  a  swift  glance  again, 
of  triumph  on  the  lady's  .part. 

"There  is  a  shell,"  said  Lois,  putting  one  into 
his  hand.  "I  think  that  is  pretty,  and  it  certainly 
is  odd.  And  what  do  you  say  to  those  white 
violets,  Mr.  Caruthers?  And  here  is  some  very 
beautiful  pimpernel — and  here  is  a  flower  that  I  do 
not  know  at  all, — and  the  rest  is  what  you  would 
call  rubbish,"  she  finished  with  a  smile,  so  charm 
ing  that  Tom  could  not  see  the  violets  for  dazzled 
eyes. 

"  Shew  me  the  flowers,  Tom,"  his  mother  de 
manded;  and  she  kept  him  by  her,  answering  her 
questions  and  remarks  about  them;  while  Julia 
asked  where  they  could  be  found  ? 

"  I  find  them  in  quite  a  good  many  places,"  said 
Lois;  "and  every  time  it  is  a  sort  of  surprise.  I 
gathered  only  a  few;  I  do  not  like  to  take  them 
away  from  their  places;  they  are  best  there." 

She.  said  a  word  or  two  to  Mrs.  Wishart,  and 
passed  on  into  the  house. 

"That's  the  girl,"  Julia  said  in  a  low  voice  to 
her  lover,  walking  off  to  the  other  end  of  the 
verandah  with  him. 

"  Tom  might  do  worse" — was  the  reply. . 

"  George !  How  can  you  say  so  ?  A  girl  who 
doesn't  know  common  English  ! " 

"  She  might  go  to  school,"  suggested  Lenox. 

"To  school!  •  At  her  age!  And  then,  think  of 
her  associations,  and  her  ignorance  of  everything 
a  lady  should  be  and  should  know.  O  you  men ! 


168  NOBODY. 

I  have  no  patience  with  you.  See  a  face  you 
like,  and  you  lose  your  wits  at  once,  the  best  of 
you.  I  wonder  you  ever  fancied  me !  " 

"  Tastes  are  unaccountable" — the  young  man  re 
turned,  with  a  lover-like  smile. 

44  But  do  you  call  that  girl  pretty  ?  " 

Mr.  Lenox  looked  portentously  grave.  "  She 
has  handsome  hair — "  he  ventured. 

"  Hair !  What's  hair  V  Anybody  can  have  hand 
some  hair,  that  will  pay  for  it." 

"  She  has  not  paid  for  hers." 

"No,  and  I  don't  mean  that  Tom  shall.  Now 
George,  you  must  help.  I  brought  you  along  to 
help.  Tom  is  lost  if  we  don't  save  him.  He  must 
not  be  left  alone  with  this  girl ;  and  if  he  gets  talk 
ing  to  her  you  must  mix  in  and  break  it  up;  make 
love  to  her  yourself,  if  necessary.  And  we  must 
see  to  it  that  they  do  not  go  off  walking  together. 
You  must  help  me  watch  and  help  me  hinder. 
Will  you?" 

"  Keally,  I  should  not  be  grateful  to  anyone  who 
did  me  such  kind  service." 

"  But  it  is  to  save  Tom." 

"  Save  him  !     From  what  ?  " 

"  From  a  low  marriage.     What  could  be  worse  ?  " 

"  Adjectives  are  declinable.  There  is  low,  lower, 
lowest." 

44  Well,  what  could  be  lower  ?  A  poor  girl,  un 
educated,  inexperienced,  knowing  nobody,  brought 
up  in  the  country,  and  of  no  family  in  partic 
ular,  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  beautiful 


A  SUMMER   HOTEL.  169 

hair !     Tom  ought  to  have  something  better  than 

that." 

.    "  I'll  study  her  further,  and  then  tell  you  what  I 

think." 

"  You  are  very  stupid  to-day,  George ! " 

Nobody  got  a  chance  to  study  Lois  much  more 
that  day.  Seeing  that  Mrs.  Wishart  was  for  the 
present  well  provided  with  company,  she  withdrew 
to  her  own  room;  and  there  she  staid.  At  sup 
per  she  appeared,  but  silent  and  reserved;  and 
after  supper  she  went  away  again.  Next  morn 
ing  Lois  was  late  at  breakfast;  she  had  to  run 
a  gauntlet  of  eyes,  as  she  took  her  seat  at  a  little 
distance. 

"  Overslept,  Lois  ?  "  queried  Mrs.  Wishart. 

"  Miss  Lothrop  looks  as  if  she  never  had  been 
asleep,  nor  ever  meant  to  be,"  quoth  Tom. 

"  What  a  dreadful  character ! "  said  Miss  Julia. 
"Pray,  Miss  Lothrop,  excuse  him;  the  poor  boy 
means,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  be  complimentary." 

"  Not  so  bad,  for  a  beginner,"  remarked  Mr.  Len 
ox.  "  Ladies  always  like  to  be  thought  bright-eyed, 
I  believe." 

"  But  never  to  sleep !  "  said  Julia.  "  Imagine  the 
staring  effect." 

"You  are  complimentary  without  effort,"  Tom  re 
marked  pointedly. 

"  Lois,  my  dear,  have  you  been  out  already?"  Mrs. 
Wishart  asked.  Lois  gave  a  quiet  assent  and  be 
took  herself  to  her  breakfast. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Tom.    "  Morning  air  has  a  won- 


170  NOBODY. 

derful  effect,  if  ladies  would  only  believe  it.  They 
won't  believe  it,  and  they  suffer  accordingly." 

"  Another  compliment !  "  said  Miss  Julia  laugh 
ing.  "But  what  do  you  find,  Miss  Lothrop,  that 
can  attract  you  so  much  before  breakfast  ?  or  after 
breakfast  either,  for  that  matter." 

"  Before  breakfast  is  the  best  time  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours,"  said  Lois. 

"Pray,  for  what?" 

"  If  you  were  asked,  you  would  say,  for  sleeping," 
put  in  Tom. 

"  For  what,  Miss  Lothrop  ?  Tom,  you  are  trouble 
some." 

"  For  doing  what,  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Lois.  "  I 
should  say,  for  anything;  but  I  was  thinking  of 
enjoying." 

"We  are  all  just  arrived,"  Mr.  Lenox  began; 
"  and  we  are  slow  to  believe  there  is  anything  to 
enjoy  at  the  Isles.  Will  Miss  Lothrop  enlighten  us?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can,"  said  Lois.  "  You 
might  not  find  what  I  find." 

"What  do  you  find?" 

"  If  you  will  go  out  with  me  to-morrow  morning 
at  five  o'clock,  I  will  shew  you,"  said  Lois,  with  a 
little  smile  of  amusement,  or  of  archness,  which 
quite  struck  Mr.  Lenox  and  quite  captivated  Tom. 

"  Five  o'clock  !  "  the  former  echoed. 

"  Perhaps  he  would  not  then  see  what  you  see," 
Julia  suggested. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Lois.  "  I  am  by  no  means 
sure." 


A  SUMMER  HOTEL.  171 

She  was  let  alone  after  that;  and  as  soon  as  break 
fast  was  over  she  escaped  again.  She  made  her  way 
to  a  particular  hiding  place  she  had  discovered,  in 
the  rocks,  down  near  the  shore;  from  which  she  had 
a  most  beautiful  view  of  the  sea  and  of  several  of  the 
other  islands.  Her  nook  of  a  seat  was  comfortable 
enough,  but  all  around  it  the  rocks  were  piled  in 
broken  confusion,  sheltering  her,  she  thought,  from 
any  possible  chance  comer.  And  this  was  what 
Lois  wanted ;  for  in  the  first  place  she  was  minded 
to  keep  herself  out  of  the  way  of  the  newly-arrived 
party,  each  and  all  of  them ;  and  in  the  second  place 
she  was  intoxicated  with  the  delights  of  the  ocean. 
Perhaps  I  should  say  rather,  of  the  ocean  and  the 
rocks  and  the  air  and  the  sky,  and  of  everything  at 
Appledore,  Where  she  sat,  she  had  a  low  brown 
reef  in  sight,  jutting  out  into  the  sea  just  below  her; 
and  upon  this  reef  the  billows  were  rolling  and 
breaking  in  a.  way  utterly  and  wholly  entrancing. 
There  was  no  wind,  to  speak  of,  yet  there  was  much 
more  motion  in  the  sea  than  yesterday;  which  often 
happens  from  the  effect  of  winds  that  have  been  at 
work  far  away;  and  the  breakers  which  beat  and 
foamed  upon  that  reef,  and  indeed  upon  all  the 
shore,  were  beyond  all  telling  graceful,  beautiful, 
wonderful,  mighty,  and  changeful.  Lois  had  been 
there  to  see  the  sunrise ;  now  that  fairy  hour  was 
long  passed  and  the  day  was  in  its  full  bright 
strength ;  but  still  she  sat  spell-bound  and  watched 
the  waves;  watched  the  colours  on  the  rocks,  the 
brown  and  the  grey;  the  countless,  nameless  hues 


172  NOBODY. 

*^ 

of  ocean,  and  the  light  on  the  neighbouring  islands, 
so  different  now  from  what  they  had  been  a  few 
hours  ago. 

Now  and  then  a  thought  or  two  went  to  the 
hotel  and  its  new  inhabitants,  and  passed  in  review 
the  breakfast  that  morning.  Lois  had  taken  scarce 
any  part  in  the  conversation;  her  place  at  table 
put  her  at  a  distance  from  Mr.  Caruthers;  and 
after  those  few  first  words  she  had  been  able  to 
keep  very  quiet,  as  her  wish  was.  But  she  had 
listened,  and  observed.  Well,  the  talk  had  not 
been,  as  to  quality,  one  whit  better  than  what 
Shampuashuh  could  furnish  every  day;  nay,  Lois 
thought  the  advantage  of  sense  and  wit  and  shrewd 
ness  was  decidedly  on  the  side  of  her  country  neigh 
bours;  while  the  staple  of  talk  was  nearly  the  same. 
A  small  sort  of  gossip  and  remark,  with  commen 
tary,  on  other  people  and  other  people's  doings, 
past,  present  and  to  come.  It  had  no  interest 
whatever  to  Lois's  mind,  neither  subject  nor  treat 
ment.  But  the  manner  to-day  gave  her  something 
to  think  about.  The  manner  was  different;  and 
the  manner  not  of  talk  only,  but  of  all  that  was 
done.  Not  so  did  Shampuashuh  discuss  its  neigh 
bours,  and  not  so  did  Shampuashuh  eat  bread 
and  butter.  Shampuashuh  ways  were  more  rough, 
angular,  hurried;  less  quietness,  less  grace,  whether 
of  movement  or  speech;  less  calm  security  in  every 
action;  less  delicacy  of  taste.  It  must  have  been 
good  blood  in  Lois  which  recognized  all  this,  but 
recognize  it  she  did;  and  as  I  said,  every  now  and 


A  SUMMER  HOTEL.  173 

then  an  involuntary  thought  of  it  came  over  the 
girl.  She  felt  that  she  was  unlike  these  people; 
not  of  their  class  or  society;  she  was  sure  they 
knew  it  too  and  would  act  accordingly;  that  is, 
not  rudely  or  ungracefully  making  the  fact  known, 
but  nevertheless  feeling,  and  shewing  that  they 
felt,  that  she  belonged  to  a  detached  portion  of 
humanity.  Or  they;  what  did  it  matter?  Lois 
did  not  misjudge  or  undervalue  herself;  she  knew 
she  was  the  equal  of  these  people,  perhaps  more 
than  their  equal,  in  true  refinement  of  feeling  and 
delicacy  of  perception ;  she  knew  she  was  not  awk 
ward  in  manner;  yet  she  knew  too  that  she  had 
not  their  ease  of  habit,  nor  the  confidence  given 
by  knowledge  of  the  world  and  all  other  sorts  of 
knowledge.  Her  up-bringing  and  her  surroundings 
had  not  been  like  theirs;  they  had  been  rougher, 
coarser,  and  if  of  as  good  material,  of  far  in 
ferior  form.  She  thought  with  herself  that  she 
would  keep  as  much  out  of  their  company  as  she 
properly  could.  For  there  was  beneath  all  this 
consciousness  an  unrecognized,  or  at  least  unac 
knowledged,  sense  of  otner  things  in  Lois's  mind ; 
of  Mr.  Caruthers'  possible  feelings,  his  people's 
certain  displeasure,  and  her  own  promise  to  her 
grandmother.  She  would  keep  herself  out  of  the 
way;  easy  at  Appledore — 

**  Have  I  found  you  Miss  Lothrop  ?  "  said  a  soft, 
gracious  voice  with  a  glad  accent. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WATCHED. 

"  IT  AVE  I  found  you,  Miss  Lothrop?  " 

1 1  Looking  over  her  shoulder,  Lois  saw  the 
handsome  features  of  Mr.  Caruthers,  wearing  a 
smile  of  most  undoubted  satisfaction.  And  to  the 
scorn  of  all  her  previous  considerations,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  flush  of  pleasure  in  her  own  mind. 
This  was  not  suffered  to  appear. 

"  I  thought  I  was  where  nobody  could  find  me," 
she  answered. 

"Do  you  think  there  is  such  a  place  in  the 
whole  world?"  said  Tom  gallantly.  Meanwhile 
he  scrambled  over  some  inconvenient  rocks  to  a 
place  by  her  side.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  find  you, 
Miss  Lothrop,  both  ways, — first  at  Appledore,  and 
then  here." 

To  this  compliment  Lois  made  no  reply. 

"What  has  driven  you  to  this  little  out-of-the- 
way  nook  ?  " 

"  You  mean  Appledore  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  this  very  uncomfortable  situation  among 

the  rocks  here  ?     What  drove  you  to  it  ?  " 
(174) 


WATCHED.  175 

"  You  think  there  is  no  attraction  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  what  attraction  there  is  here  for 
you." 

"  Then  you  should  not  have  come  to  Apple- 
dore." 

"Why  not?" 

"There  is  nothing  here  for  you." 

"Ah,  but!  What  is  there  for  you?  Do  you 
find  anything  here  to  like  now,  really  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  down  in  this  '  uncomfortable  place' 
ever  since  near  five  o'clock — except  while  we  were 
at  breakfast." 

"What  for?" 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Lois  laughing.  "  If  you  ask, 
it  is  no  use  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"  Ah,  be  generous  I  "  said  Tom.  "  I'm  a  stupid 
fellow,  I  know;  but  do  try  and  help  me  a  little  to 
a  sense  of  the  beautiful.  Is  it  the  beautiful,  by 
the  way,  or  is  it  something  else  ?  " 

Lois's  laugh  rang  softly  out  again.  She  was  a 
country  girl,  it  is  true;  but  her  laugh  was  as  sweet 
to  hear  as  the  ripple  of  the  waters  among  the 
stones.  The  laugh  of  anybody  tells  very  much 
of  what  he  is,  making  revelations  undreampt  of 
often  by  the  laugher.  A  harsh  croak  does  not 
come  from  a  mind  at  peace,  nor  an  empty  clan 
gour  from  a  heart  full  of  sensitive  happiness;  nor 
a  coarse  laugh  from  a  person  of  refined  sensibilities, 
nor  a  hard  laugh  from  a  tender  spirit.  Moreover, 
people  cannot  dissemble  successfully  in  laughing; 
the  truth  comes  out  in  a  startling  manner.  Lois's 


176  NOBODY. 

laugh  was  sweet  and  musical;  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  hear.  And  Tom's  eyes  said  so. 

"I  always  knew  I  was  a  stupid  fellow,"  he 
said;  "but  I  never  felt  myself  so  stupid  as  to-day! 
What  is  it,  Miss  Lothrop  ?  " 

"  What  is  what,  Mr.  Caruthers  ? — I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  What  is  it  you  find  in  this  queer  place  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  waste  trouble  to  tell  you." 

"Good  morning!"  cried  a  cheery  voice  here  from 
below  them ;  and  looking  towards  the  water  they 
saw  Mr.  Lenox,  making  his  way  as  best  he  could 
over  slippery  seaweed  and  wet  rocks. 

"  Hollo,  George !  "  cried  Tom  in  a  different  tone 
• — "  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"Trying  to  keep  out  of  the  water,  don't  you 
see?" 

"To  an  ordinary  mind  that  object  would  seem 
more  likely  to  be  attained  if  you  kept  further  away 
from  it." 

"  May  I  come  up  where  you  are  ?  " 

"  Certainly ! "  said  Lois.  "  But  take  care  how  you 
do  it." 

A  little  scrambling  and  the  help  of  Tom's  hand 
accomplished  the  feat;  and  the  new  comer  looked 
about  him  with  much  content. 

"  You  came  the  other  way,"  he  said.  "  I  see.  I 
shall  know  how  next  time.  What  a  delightful  post, 
Miss  Lothrop ! " 

"I  have  been  trying  to  find  what  she  came  here 
for;  and  she  won't  tell  me,"  said  Tom. 


WATCHED.  177 

"You  know  what  you  came  here  for,"  said  his 
friend.  "  Why  cannot  you  credit  other  people  with 
as  much  curiosity  as  you  have  yourself  ?  " 

**  I  credit  them  with  more,"  said  Tom.  "  But  cu 
riosity  on  Appledore  will  find  itself  baffled,  I  should 
say." 

"  Depends  on  what  curiosity  is  after,"  said  Lenox. 
"  Tell  him,  Miss  Lothrop ;  he  will  not  be  any  the 
wiser." 

"  Then  why  should  I  tell  him  ?  "  said  Lois. 

"Perhaps  I  shall!" 

Lois's  laugh  came  again. 

*'  Seriously.  If  any  one  were  to  ask  me,  not  only 
what  we  but  what  anybody  should  come  to  this  place 
for,  I  should  be  unprepared  with  an  answer.  I  am 
forcibly  reminded  of  an  old  gentleman  who  went 
up  Mount  Washington  on  one  occasion  when  I  also 
went  up.  It  came  on  to  rain — a  sudden  summer 
gust  and  down-pour,  hiding  the  very  mountain  it 
self  from  our  eyes;  hiding  the  path,  hiding  the 
members  of  the  party  from  each  other.  We  were 
descending  the  mountain  by  that  time,  and  it  was 
ticklish  work  for  a  nervous  person;  every  one  was 
committed  to  his  own  sweet  guidance ;  and  as  I  went 
blindly  stumbling  along,  I  came  every  now  and  then 
upon  the  old  gentleman,  also  stumbling  along,  on 
his  donkey.  And  whenever  I  was  near  enough 
to  him  I  could  hear  him  dismally  soliloquizing, 
4  Why  am  I  here ! ' — in  a  tone  of  mingled  disgust 
and  self-reproach  which  was  in  the  highest  degree 
comical." 


178  NOBODY. 

"  So  that  is  your  state  of  mind  now,  is  it  ?  "  said 
Tom. 

"  Not  quite  yet,  but  I  feel  it  is  going  to  be.  Un 
less  Miss  Lothrop  can  teach  me  something." 

"There  are  some  things  that  cannot  be  taught," 
said  Lois. 

"And  people — hey?  But  I  am  not  one  of  those, 
Miss  Lothrop." 

He  looked  at  her  with  such  a  face  of  demure  in 
nocence  that  Lois  could  not  keep  her  gravity. 

"Now  Tom  is"  Lenox  went  on.  "You  cannot 
teach  him  anything,  Miss  Lothrop.  It  would  be 
lost  labour." 

"  I  am  not  so  stupid  as  you  thkik,"  said  Tom. 

"He's  not  stupid, — he's  obstinate,"  Lenox  went 
on,  addressing  himself  to  Lois.  "  He  takes  a  thing 
in  his  head.  Now  that  sounds  intelligent;  but  it 
isn't,  or  he  isn't;  for  when  you  try,  you  can't  get  it 
out  of  his  head  again.  So  he  took  it  into  his  head 
to  come  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  and  hither  he  has 
dragged  his  mother  and  his  sister,  and  hither  by 
consequence  he  has  dragged  me.  Now  I  ask  you, 
as  one  who  can  tell — what  have  we  all  come  here 
for  ?  " 

Half  quizzically,  half  inquisitively,  the  young 
man  put  the  question,  lounging  on  the  rocks  and 
looking  up  into  Lois's  face.  Tom  grew  impatient. 
But  Lois  was  too  humble  and  simple-minded  to  fall 
into  the  snare  laid  for  her.  I  think  she  had  a  half 
discernment  of  a  hidden  intent  under  Mr.  Lenox's 
words;  nevertheless  in  the  simple  dignity  of  truth 


WATCHED.  179 

she  disregarded  it,  and  did  not  even  blush,  either 
with  consciousness  or  awkwardness.  She  was  a 
little  amused. 

"I  suppose  experience  will  have  to  be  your 
teacher,  as  it  is  other  people's." 

"  I  have  heard  so ;  I  never  saw  anybody  who 
had  learned  much  that  way." 

"  Come,  George,  that's  ridiculous.  Learning  by 
experience  is  proverbial,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  know ! — but  it's  a  delusion  nevertheless.  You 
sprain  your  ankle  among  these  stones,  for  instance. 
Well — you  won't  put  your  foot  in  that  particular 
hole  again ;  but  you  will  in  another.  That's  the 
way  you  do,  Tom.  But  to  return — Miss  Lothrop, 
what  has  experience  done  for  you  in  the  Isles  of 
Shoals?" 

"  I  have  not  had  much  yet." 

"  Does  it  pay,  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  does." 

"  How  came  anybody  to  think  of  coming  here  at 
first  ?  that  is  what  I  should  like  to  know.  I  never 
saw  a  more  uncompromising  bit  of  barrenness.  Is 
there  no  desolation  anywhere  else,  that  men  should 
come  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals?  " 

"  There  was  quite  a  large  settlement  here  once," 
said  Lois. 

"Indeed!     When?" 

"  Before  the  war  of  the  revolution.  There  were 
hundreds  of  people;  six  hundred,  somebody  told 
me." 

"  What  became  of  them  ?  " 


180  NOBODY. 

"  Well,"  said  Lois  smiling,  "  as  that  is  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago,  I  suppose  they  all 
died." 

"  And  their  descendants  ? — " 

"  Living  on  the  mainland,  most  of  them.  When 
the  war  came,  they  could  not  protect  themselves 
against  the  English." 

"Fancy,  Tom,"  said  Lenox.  "People  liked  it 
so  well  on  these  rocks  that  it  took  ships  of  war 
to  drive  them  away  !  " 

"  The  people  that  live  here  now  are  just  as  fond 
of  them,  I  am  told." 

"  What  earthly  or  heavenly  inducement  ?— " 

"Yes,  1  might  have  said  so  too,  the  first  hour 
of  my  being  here,  or  the  first  day.  The  second, 
I  began  to  understand  it." 

"  Do  make  me  understand  it !  " 

"  If  you  will  come  here  at  five  o'clock  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Lenox — in  the  morning,  I  mean, — and  will 
watch  the  wonderful  sunrise,  the  waking  up  of 
land  and  sea;  if  you  will  stay  here  then  patiently 
till  ten  o'clock,  and  see  the  changes  and  the  colours 
on  everything — let  the  sea  and  the  sky  speak  to 
you,  as  they  will ;  then  they  will  tell  you — all  you 
can  understand ! " 

"  All  I  can  understand.  H'm !  May  I  go  home 
for  breakfast?" 

"  Perhaps  you  must;  but  you  will  wish  you  need 
not." 

"  Will  you  be  here  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lois.     "  I  will  be  somewhere  else." 


WATCHED.  181 

"But  I  couldn't  stand  such  a  long  talk  with 
myself  as  that,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  It  was  a  talk  with  Nature  I  recommended  to 
you." 

"All  the  same.  Nature  says  queer  things,  if 
you  let  her  alone." 

"  Best  listen  to  them,  then." 

"Why?" 

"  She  tells  you  the  truth." 

"  Do  you  like  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     Of  course.     Do  not  you  ?  " 

"Always?" 

"Yes,  always.     Do  not  you?" 

"  It's  fearfully  awkward !  "  said  the  young  man. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  Tom  echoed. 

"Do  you  like  falsehood,  Mr.  Lenox?" 

"  I  dare  not  say  what  I  like — in  this  presence. 
Miss  Lothrop,  I  am  very  much  afraid  you  are  a 
Puritan." 

"  What  is  a  Puritan  ?  "  asked  Lois  simply. 

"He  doesn't  know!"  said  Tom.  "You  needn't 
ask  him." 

"  I  will  ask  you  then,  for  I  do  not  know.  What 
dees  he  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"He  doesn't  know  that,"  said  Lenox  laughing. 
"  I  will  tell  you,  Miss  Lothrop — if  I  can.  A  Pu 
ritan  is  a  person  so  much  better  than  the  ordinary 
run  of  mortals  that  she  is  not  afraid  to  let  Nature 
and  Solitude  speak  to*  her — dares  to  look  roses  in 
the  face,  in  fact ; — has  no  charity  for  the  crooked 
ways  of  the  world  or  for  the  people  entangled  in 


182  NOBODY. 

them ;  a  person  who  can  bear  truth  and  has  no 
need  of  falsehood,  and  who  is  thereby  lifted  above 
the  multitudes  of  this  world's  population,  and  stands 
as  it  were  alone." 

"  I'll  report  that  speech  to  Julia,"  said  Tom 
laughing. 

"But  that  is  not  what  a  'Puritan'  generally 
means,  is  it  ?  "  said  Lois.  They  both  laughed  now 
at  the  quaint  simplicity  with  which  this  was  spoken. 

" That  is  what  it  is"  Tom  answered. 

"I  do  not  think  the  term  is  complimentary/ 
Lois  went  on,  shaking  her  head;  "however  Mr. 
Lenox's  explanation  may  be.  Isn't  it  ten  o'clock?" 

"  Near  eleven." 

"Then  I  must  go  in." 

The  two  gentlemen  accompanied  her,  making 
themselves  very  pleasant  by  the  way.  Lenox 
asked  her  about  flowers;  and  Tom,  who  was  some 
thing  of  a  naturalist,  told  her  about  mosses  and 
lichens,  more  than  she  knew;  and  the  walk  was 
too  short  for  Lois.  But  on  reaching  the  hotel  she 
went  straight  to  her  own  room  and  staid  there. 
So  also  after  dinner,  which  of  course  brought  her 
to  the  company,  she  went  back  to  her  solitude  and 
her  work.  She  must  write  home,  she  said.  Yet 
writing  was  not  Lois's  sole  reason  for  shutting 
herself  up. 

She  would  keep  herself  out  of  the  way,  she 
reasoned.  Probably  this  company  of  city  people 
with  city  tastes  would  not  stay  long  at  Appledore ; 
while  they  were  there  she  had  better  be  seen  as 


WATCHED.  183 

little  as  possible.  For  she  felt  that  the  sight 
of  Tom  Caruthers'  handsome  face  had  been  a  pleas 
ure;  and  she  felt,  and  what  woman  does  not?  that 
there  is  a  certain  very  sweet  charm  in  being  liked, 
independently  of  the  question  how  much  you  like 
in  return.  And  Lois  knew,  though  she  hardly  in 
her  modesty  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  that  Mr. 
Caruthers  liked  her.  Eyes  and  smiles  and  mariner 
shewed  it;  she  could  not  mistake  it;  nay,  engaged 
man  though  he  was,  Mr.  Lenox  liked  her  too.  She 
did  not  quite  understand  him  or  his  manner;  with 
the  keen  intuition  of  a  true  woman  she  felt  vaguely 
what  she  did  not  clearly  discern,  and  was  not  sure 
of  the  colour  of  his  liking,  as  she  was  sure  of  Tom's. 
Tom's — it  might  not  be  deep,  but  it  was  true,  and 
it  was  pleasant;  and  Lois  remembered  her  promise 
to  her  grandmother.  She  even,  when  her  letter 
was  done,  took  out  her  Bible  and  opened  it  at  that 
well  known  place  in  2nd  Corinthians;  'Be  not 
unequally  yoked  together  with  unbelievers' — and 
she  looked  hard  at  the  familiar  words.  Then,  said 
Lois  to  herself,  it  is  best  to  keep  at  a  distance  from 
temptation.  For  these  people  were  unbelievers. 
They  could  not  understand  one  word  of  Christian 
hope  or  joy,  if  she  spoke  them.  What  had  she 
and  they  in  common  ? 

Yet  Lois  drew  rather  a  long  breath  once  or  twice 
in  the  course  of  her  meditations.  These  "unbe 
lievers"  were  so  pleasant.  Yes,  it  was  an  undoubt 
ed  fact;  they  were  pleasant  people  to  be  with  and 
to  talk  to.  They  might  not  think  with  her,  or  com- 


184  NOBODY. 

prehend  her  even,  in  the  great  questions  of  life  and 
duty;  in  the  lesser  matters  of  every  day  experience 
they  were  well  posted.  They  understood  the  world 
and  the  things  in  the  world,  and  the  men ;  and  they 
were  skilled  and  deft  and  graceful  in  the  arts  of  so 
ciety.  Lois  knew  no  young  men, — nor  old,  for  that 
matter, — who  were,  as  gentlemen,  as  social  com 
panions,  to  be  compared  with  these  and  others  their 
associates  in  graces  of  person  and  manner,  and  in 
terest  of  conversation.  She  went  over  again  and 
again  in  memory  the  interview  and  the  talk  of  that 
morning ;  and  not  without  a  secret  thrill  of  gratifi 
cation,  although  also  not  without  a  vague  half  per 
ception  of  something  in  Mr.  Lenox's  manner  that 
she  could  not  quite  read  and  did  not  quite  trust. 
What  did  he  mean  ?  He  was  Miss  Caruthers'  prop 
erty  ;  how  came  he  to  busy  himself  at  all  with  her 
own  insignificant  self?  Lois  was  too  innocent  to 
guess;  at  the  same  time  too  finely  gifted  as  a  wo 
man  to  be  entirely  hoodwinked.  She  rose  at  last 
with  a  third  little  sigh,  as  she  concluded  that  her 
best  way  was  to  keep  as  well  away  as  she  could 
from  this  pleasant  companionship. 

But  she  could  not  stay  in-doors.  For  once  in  her 
life  she  was  at  Appledore ;  she  must  not  miss  her 
chance.  The  afternoon  was  half  gone;  the  house 
all  still;  probably  everybody  was  in  his  room  and 
she  could  slip  out  safely.  She  went  down  on  soft 
feet ;  she  found  nobody  on  the  piazza,  not  a  creature 
in  sight ;  she  was  glad ;  and  yet,  she  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  see  Tom  Caruthers'  genial  face,  which 


WATCHED.  185 

was  always  so  very  genial  towards  her.  Inconsis 
tent  ! — but  who  is  not  inconsistent  ?  Lois  thought 
herself  free,  and  had  half  descended  the  steps  from 
the  verandah,  when  she  heard  a  voice  and  her  own 
name.  She  paused  and  looked  round. 

"  Miss  Lothrop ! — are  you  going  for  a  walk  ?  may 
I  come  with  you  ?  " — and  therewith  emerged  the 
form  of  Miss  Julia  from  the  house.  "  Are  you  go 
ing  for  a  walk  ?  will  you  let  me  go  along  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Lois. 

"  I  am  regularly  cast  away  here,"  said  the  young 
lady  joining  her.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
myself.  Is  there  anything  to  do  or  to  see  in  this 
place?" 

"  I  think  so.     Plenty." 

"  Then  do  shew  me  what  you  have  found.  Where 
are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  down  to  the  shore  somewhere.  I 
have  only  begun  to  find  things  yet ;  but  I  never  in  my 
life  saw  a  place  where  there  was  so  much  to  find." 

"  What,  pray  ?  I  cannot  imagine.  I  see  a  little 
wild  bit  of  ground,  and  that  is  all  I  see ;  except  the 
sea  beating  on  the  rocks.  It  is  the  forlornest  place 
of  amusement  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life  !  " 

"  Are  you  fond  of  flowers,  Miss  Caruthers  ?  " 

"Flowers?  No,  not  very.  0  I  like  them  to  dress 
a  dinner  table,  or  to  make  rooms  look  pretty,  of 
course ;  but  I  am  not  what  you  call  '  fond '  of  them. 
That  means,  loving  to  dig  in  the  dirt,  don't  it?" 

Lois  presently  stooped  and  gathered  a  flower  or 
two. 


186  NOBODY. 

"Did  yon  ever  see  such  lovely  white  violets?" 
she  said;  "and  is  not  that  eyebright  delicate,  with 
its  edging  of  colour  ?  There  are  quantities  of  flow 
ers  here.  And  have  you  noticed  how  deep  and  rich 
the  colours  are  ?  No,  you  have  not  been  here  long 
enough  perhaps ;  but  they  are  finer  than  any  I  ew 
saw  of  their  kinds." 

"  What  do  you  find  down  at  the  shore  ? "  said 
Miss  Caruthers,  looking  very  disparagingly  at  the 
slight  beauties  in  Lois's  fingers.  "There  are  no 
flowers  there,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"I  can  hardly  get  away  from  the  shore,  every 
time  I  go  to  it,"  said  Lois.  "01  have  only  begun 
to  explore  yet.  Over  on  that  end  of  Appledore 
there  are  the  old  remains  of  a  village,  where  the 
people  used  to  live,  once  upon  a  time.  I  want  to 
go  and  see  that,  but  I  haven't  got  there  yet.  Now 
take  care  of  your  footing,  Miss  Caruthers — " 

They  descended  the  rocks  to  one  of  the  small 
coves  of  the  island.  Out  of  sight  now  of  all  save 
rocks  and  sea  and  the  tiny  bottom  of  the  cove  filled 
with  mud  arid  sand.  Even  the  low  bushes  which 
grow  so  thick  on  Appledore  were  out  of  sight, 
huckleberry  and  bayberry  and  others;  the  wild- 
ness  and  solitude  of  the  spot  were  perfect.  Miss 
Caruthers  found  a  dry  seat  on  a  rock.  Lois  began 
to  look  carefully  about  in  the  rnud  and  sand. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  her  companion 
asked  somewhat  scornfully. 

"  Anything  I  can  find !  " 

"  What  can  you  find  in  that  mud  ?  " 


WATCHED.  187 

"  This  is  gravel,  where  I  am  looking  now." 

"  Well  what  is  in  the  gravel  ?  " 

MJ  don't  know,"  said  Lois,  in  the  dreamy  tone  of 
rapt  enjoyment.  "I  don't  know  yet.  Plenty  of 
broken  shells." 

• "  Broken  shells ! "  ejaculated  the  other.  "  Are  you 
collecting  broken  shells?" 

"  Look," — said  Lois  coming  to  her  and  display 
ing  her  palm  full  of  sea  treasures.  "  See  the  colours 
of  those  bits  of  shell — that's  a  bit  of  a  mussel;  and 
that  is  a  piece  of  a  snail  shell,  1  think;  and  aren't 
those  little  stones  lovely  ?  " 

"  That  is  because  they  are  wet ! "  said  the  other 
in  disgust.  "  They  will  be  nothing  when  they  are 
dry." 

Lois  laughed  and  went  back  to  her  search ;  and 
Miss  Julia  waited  awhile  with  impatience  for  some 
change  in  the  programme. 

"Do  you  enjoy  this,  Miss  Lothrop  ?" 

"  Very  much !  More  than  I  can  in  any  way  tell 
you ! "  cried  Lois,  stopping  and  turning  to  look  at 
her  questioner.  Her  face  answered  for  her;  it  was 
all  flushed  and  bright  with  delight  and  the  spirit  of 
discovery;  a  pretty  creature  indeed  she  looked  as 
she  stood  there  on  the  wet  gravel  of  the  cove ;  but 
her  face  lost  brightness  for  a  moment,  as  Lois  dis 
cerned  Tom's  head  above  the  herbs  and  grasses 
that  bordered  the  bank  above  the  cove.  Julia  saw 
the  change,  and  then  the  cause  of  it. 

"  Tom  !  "  said  she.—"  What  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  What  brought  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Tom, 


188  NOBODY. 

springing  down  the  bank.  "Miss  Lothrop,  what 
can  you  be  doing  ?  "  Passing  his  sister  he  went  to 
the  other  girl's  side.  And  now  there  were  two 
searching  and  peering  into  the  mud  and  gravel 
which  the  tide  had  left  wet  and  bare;  and  Miss 
Caruthers,  sitting  on  a  rock  a  little  above  them, 
looked  on;  much  marvelling  at  the  follies  men 
will  be  guilty  of  when  a  pretty  face  draws  them 
on. 

"  Tom — Tom  ! — what  do  you  expect  to  find  ?  '* 
she  cried  after  awhile.  But  Tom  was  too  busy 
to  heed  her.  And  then  appeared  Mr.  Lenox  upon 
the  scene. 

"You  too ! "  said  Miss  Caruthers.  "  Now  you 
have  only  to  go  down  into  the  mud  like  the 
others  and  complete  the  situation.  Look  at  Tom  ! 
Poking  about  to  see  if  he  can  find  a  whole  snail 
shell  in  the  wet  stuff  there.  Look  at  him !  George, 
a  brother  is  the  most  vexatious  thing  to  take  care 
of  in  the  world.  Look  at  Tom  !  " 

Mr.  Lenox  did,  with  an  amused  expression  of 
feature. 

"  Bad  job,  Julia — "  he  said. 

"It  is  in  one  way,  but  it  isn't  in  another,  for  I 
am  not  going  to  be  baffled.  He  shall  not  make  a 
fool  of  himself  with  that  girl." 

"  She  isn't  a  fool." 

"  What  then  ?  "  said  Julia  sharply. 

"  Nothing.  I  was  only  thinking  of  the  materials 
upon  which  your  judgment  is  made  up." 

"  Materials !  "    echoed   Julia.     "  Yours   is   made 


WATCHED.  189 

up  upon  a  nice  complexion.  That  bewilders  all 
men's  faculties.  Do  you  think  she  is  very  pretty, 
George?" 

Mr.  Lenox  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  Lois,  and 
of  course  -Tom,  at  this  moment  left  the  cove  bottom 
and  came  towards  them.  Lois  was  beaming,  like 
a  child,  with  such  bright,  pure  pleasure;  and  com 
ing  up,  shewed  upon  her  open  palm  a  very  delicate 
little  white  shell,  not  a  snail  shell  by  any  means. 
"  I  have  found  that !  "  she  proclaimed. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Julia  disdainfully,  though 
not  with  rudeness. 

"  You  see.  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  And  isn't  it  won 
derful  that  it  should  not  be  broken  ?  If  you  think 
of  the  power  of  the  waves  here,  that  have  beat 
to  pieces  almost  everything — rolled  and  ground 
and  crushed  everything  that  would  break — and 
this  delicate  little  thing  has  lived  through  it." 

"  There  is  a  power  of  life  in  some  delicate  things," 
said  Tom. 

"  Power  of  fiddlestick !  "  said  his  sister.  "  Miss 
Lothrop,  I  think  this  place  is  a  terrible  desert ! " 

"  Then  we  will  not  stay  here  any  longer,"  said 
Lois.  "  I  am  very  fond  of  these  little  coves." 

"  No,  no,  I  mean  Appledore  generally.  It  is  the 
stupidest  place  I  ever  was  in  in  my  life.  There 
is  nothing  here." 

Lois  looked  at  the  lady  with  an  expression  of 
wondering  compassion. 

"Your  experience  does  not  agree  with  that  of 
Miss  Caruthers  ?  "  said  Lenox. 


190  NOBODY. 

"No,"  said  Lois.  "Let  us  take  her  to  the  place 
where  you  found  me  this  morning;  maybe  she 
would  like  that." 

"  We  must  go,  I  suppose,"  groaned  Julia,  as 
Mr.  Lenox  helped  her  up  over  the  rocks  after 
the  lighter -footed  couple  that  preceded  them. 
"George,  I  believe  you  are  in  the  way." 

"  Thanks !  "  said  the  young  man  laughing.  "  But 
you  will  excuse  me  for  continuing  to  be  in  the 
way  ?  " 

"  r  don't  know — you  see,  it  just  sets  Tom  free 
to  attend  to  her.  Look  at  him — picking  those 
purple  irises — as  if  iris  did  not  grow  anywhere 
else !  And  now  elderberry  blossoms !  And  he  will 
give  her  lessons  in  botany,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  0 
Tom's  a  goose  !  " 

"That  disease  is  helpless,"  said  Lenox  laughing 
again. 

"But  George,  it  is  madness  !  " 

Mr.  Lenox's  laugh  rang  out  heartily  at  this.  His 
sovereign  mistress  was  not  altogether  pleased. 

"  I  do  certainly  consider — and  so  do  you, — -I  do 
certainly  consider  unequal  marriages  to  be  a  great 
misfortune  to  all  concerned." 

"  Certainly — inequalities  that  cannot  be  made  up. 
For  instance,  too  tall  and  too  short  do  not  match 
well  together.  Or  for  the  lady  to  be  rich  and  the 
man  to  be  poor;  that  is  perilous." 

"  Nonsense,  George !  don't  be  ridiculous!  Height 
is  nothing,  and  money  is  nothing;  but  family — and 
breeding — and  habits — " 


WATCHED.  191 

"  What  is  her  family  ? "  asked  Mr.  Lenox,  purs 
ing  up  his  lips  as  if  for  a  whistle. 

"No  family  at  all.  Just  country  people,  living 
at  Sbampuashuh." 

"Don't  you  know,  the  English  middle  class  is 
the  finest  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  No  !  no  better  than  ours." 

"  My  dear,  we  have  no  middle  class." 

"  But  what  about  the  English  middle  class  ?  why 
do  you  bring  it  up  ?  " 

"  It  owes  its  great  qualities  to  its  having  the 
mixed  blood  of  the  higher  and  the  lower." 

"  Ridiculous !  What  is  that  to  us,  if  we  have  no 
middle  class  ?  But  don't  you  see,  George,  what  an 
unhappy  thing  it  would  be  for  Tom  to  marry  this 
girl?"  " 

Mr.  Lenox  whistled  slightly,  smiled,  and  pulled 
a  purple  iris  blossom  from  a  tuft  growing  in  a  little 
spot  of  wet  ground.  He  offered  it  to  his  disturbed 
companion. 

"  There  is  a  country  flower  for  you — "  he  observed. 

But  Miss  Caruthers  flung  the  flower  impatiently 
away,  and  hastened  her  steps  to  catch  up  with  her 
brother  and  Lois  who  made  better  speed  than  she. 
Mr.  Lenox  picked  up  the  iris  and  followed,  smiling 
again  to  himself. 

They  found  Lois  seated  in  her  old  place,  where 
the  gentlemen  had  seen  her  in  the  morning.  She 
rose  at  once  to  give  the  seat  to  Miss  Caruthers,  arid 
herself  took  a  less  convenient  one.  It  was  almost 
a  new  scene  to  Lois,  that  lay  before  them  now. 


192  NOBODY. 

The  lights  were  from  a  different  quarter;  the  col 
ours  those  of  the  sinking  day;  the  sea-,  from  some 
inexplicable  reason,  was  rolling  higher  than  it  had 
done  six  hours  ago,  and  dashed  on  the  rocks  and 
on  the  reef  in  beautiful  breakers,  sending  up  now 
and  then  a  tall  jet  of  foam  or  a  shower  of  spray. 
The  hazy  mainland  shore  line  was  very  indistinct 
under  the  bright  sky  and  lowering  sun ;  while  every 
bit  of  west-looking  rock,  and  every  sail,  and  every 
combing  billow  was  touched  with  warm  hues  or 
gilded  with  a  sharp  reflection.  The  air  was  like 
the  air  nowhere  but  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals;  with 
the  sea's  salt  strength  and  freshness,  and  at  times 
a  waft  of  perfumes  from  the  land  side.  Lois  drank 
it  with  an  inexpressible  sense  of  exhilaration ;  while 
her  eye  went  joyously  roving  from  the  lovely  light 
on  a  sail,  to  the  dancing  foam  of  the  breakers,  to 
the  colours  of  driftwood  or  seaweed  or  moss  left 
wet  and  bare  on  the  rocks,  to  the  line  of  the  dis 
tant  ocean,  or  the  soft  vapoury  racks  of  clouds 
floating  over  from  the  west.  She  well  nigh  forgot 
her  companions  altogether;  who  however  were  less 
absorbed.  Yet  for  a  while  they  all  sat  silent,  look 
ing  partly  at  Lois,  partly  at  each  other,  partly  no 
doubt  at  the  leaping  spray  from  the  broken  waves 
on  the  reef.  There  was  only  the  delicious  sound 
of  the  splash  and  gurgle  of  waters — the  scream  of 
a  gull — the  breath  of  the  air — the  chirrup  of  a  few 
insects;  all  was  wild  stillness  and  freshness  and 
pureness,  except  only  that  little  group  of  four  hu 
man  beings.  And  then,  the  puzzled  vexation  and 


WATCHED.  193 

perplexity  in  Tom's  face,  and  the  impatient  disgust 
in  the  face  of  his  sister,  were  too  much  for  Mr.  Len 
ox's  sense  of  the  humorous;  and  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter,  which  natu 
rally  brought  all  eyes  to  himself. 

"  Pardon  !  "  said  the  young  gentleman.  *'  The 
delight  in  your  face,  Julia,  was  irresistible." 

"  Delight !  "  she  echoed.  "  Miss  Lothrop,  do  you 
find  something  here  in  which  you  take  pleasure  V  " 

Lois  looked  round.  "  Yes,"  she  said  simply.  "  I 
find  something  everywhere  to  take  pleasure  in." 

"  Even  at  Shampuashuh  ?  " 

"  At  Shampuashuh  of  course.    That  is  my  home." 

44  But  I  never  take  pleasure  in  anything  at  home. 
It  is  all  such  an  old  story.  Every  day  is  just  like 
any  other  day,  and  I  know  beforehand  exactly  how 
everything  will  be;  and  one  dress  is  like  another, 
and  one  party  is  like  another.  I  must  go  away 
from  home  to  get  any  real  pleasure." 

Lois  wondered  if  she  succeeded. 

4' That's  a  nice  look-out  for  you,  George,"  Caru- 
thers  remarked. 

"  I  shall  know  how  to  make  home  so  agreeable 
that  she  will  not  want  to  wander  any  more,"  said 
the  other. 

44  That  is  what  the  women  do  for  the  men,  down 
our  way,"  said  Lois  smiling.  She  began  to  feel  a 
little  mischief  stirring. 

"  What  sort  of  pleasures  do  you  find,  or  make, 
at  home,  Miss  Lothrop?"  Julia  went  on.  "You 
are  very  quiet,  are  you  not  ?  " 


194  NOBODY. 

"There  is  always  one's  work,"  said  Lois  lightly. 
She  knew  it  would  be  in  vain  to  tell  her  questioner 
the  instances  that  came  up  in  her  memory;  the 
first  dish  of  ripe  strawberries  brought  in  to  sur 
prise  her  grandmother;  the  new  potatoes  uncom 
monly  early;  the  fine  yield  of  her  raspberry  bushes; 
the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  early  mornings  in  her 
garden ;  the  rarer,  sweeter  beauty  of  the  Bible  read 
ing  and  talk  with  old  Mrs.  Armadale;  the  tri 
umphant  afternoons  on  the  shore,  from  which  she 
and  her  sisters  came  back  with  great  baskets 
of  long  clams;  and  countless  other  visions  of 
home  comfort  and  home  peace,  things  accomplished 
and  the  fruit  of  them  enjoyed.  Miss  Caruthers 
could  not  understand  all  this;  so  Lois  answered 
simply, 

"  There  is  always  one's  work." 

"  Work !  I  hate  work,"  cried  the  other  woman. 
"  What  do  you  call  work  ?  " 

"  Everything  that  is  to  be  done,"  said  Lois.  "  Ev 
erything,  except  what  we  do  for  mere  pleasure. 
We  keep  no  servant;  my  sisters  and  I  do  all  that 
there  is  to  do,  in  doors  and  out." 

"  Out  of  doors !  "  cried  Miss  Caruthers.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  You  cannot  do  the  farming  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Lois  smiling  merrily;  "no;  not  the 
farming.  That  is  done  by  men.  But  the  garden 
ing  I  do." 

"  Not  seriously  ?  " 

"Very  seriously.  If  you  will  come  and  see  us, 
I  will  give  you  some  new  potatoes  of  my  planting. 


WATCHED.  195 

I  am  rather  proud  of  them.  I  was  just  thinking 
of  them." 

"  Planting  potatoes !  "  repeated  the  other  lady, 
not  too  politely.  "Then  that  is  the  reason  why 
you  find,  it  a  pleasure  to  sit  here  and  see  those 
waves  beat." 

The  logical  concatenation  of  this  speech  was 
not  so  apparent  but  that  it  touched  all  the  risible 
nerves  of  the  party ;  and  Miss  Caruthers  could  not 
understand  why  all  three  laughed  so  heartily. 

"  What  did  you  expect  when  you  came  here  ?  " 
asked  Lois,  still  sparkling  with  fun. 

"  Just  what  I  found !  "  returned  the  other  rather 
grumbly. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

TACTICS. 

MISS  CARUTHERS  carried  on  the  tactics  with 
which  she  had  begun.  Lois  had  never  in 
her  life  found  her  society  so  diligently  cultivated. 
If  she  walked  out,  Miss  Caruthers  begged  to  be 
permitted  to  go  along;  she  wished  to  learn  about 
the  Islands.  Lois  could  not  see  that  she  advanced 
much  in  learning;  and  sometimes  wondered  that 
she  did  not  prefer  her  brother  or  her  lover  as 
instructors.  True,  her  brother  and  her  lover  were 
frequently  of  the  party ;  yet  even  then  Miss  Julia 
seemed  to  choose  to  take  her  lessons  from  Lois; 
and  managed  as  much  as  possible  to  engross  her. 
Lois  could  see  that  at  such  times  Tom  was  often 
annoyed,  and  Mr.  Lenox  amused,  at  something, 
she  could  not  quite  tell  what;  and  she  was  too 
inexperienced,  and  too  modest  withal,  to  guess. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  not  as  free  as  she 
would  have  liked  to  be.  Sometimes  Tom  found 
a  chance  for  a  little  walk  and  talk  with  her  alone; 
and  those  quarters  of  an  hour  were  exceedingly 
pleasant;  Tom  told  her  abou<  flowers,  in  a  scientific 

(196) 


TACTICS.  197 

way,  that  is;  and  made  himself  a  really  charm 
ing  companion.  Those  minutes  flew  swiftly.  But 
they  never  were  many.  If  not  Julia,  at  least  Mr. 
Lenox  was  sure  to  appear  upon  the  scene;  and 
then,  though  he  was  very  pleasant  too,  and  more 
than  courteous  to  Lois,  somehow  the  charm  was 
gone.  It  was  just  as  well,  Lois  told  herself;  but 
that  did  not  make  her  like  it.  Except  with  Tom, 
she  did  not  enjoy  herself  thoroughly  in  the  Caru- 
thers  society.  She  felt,  with  a  sure,  secret,  fine 
instinct,  what  they  were  not  high  bred  enough  to 
hide ; — that  they  did  not  accept  her  as  upon  their 
own  platform.  I  do  not  think  the  consciousness 
was  plain  enough  to  be  put  into  words;  neverthe 
less  it  was  decided  enough  to  make  her  quite 
willing  to  avoid  their  company.  She  tried,  but 
she  could  not  avoid  it.  In  the  house  as  out  of  the 
house.  Tom  would  seek  her  out  and  sit  down 
beside  her;  and  then  Julia  would  come  to  learn  a 
crochet  stitch,  or  Mrs.  Caruthers  would  call  her  to 
remedy  a  fault  in  her  knitting,  or  to  hold  her  wool 
to  be  wound;  refusing  to  let  Mr.  Lenox  hold  it, 
under  the  plea  that  Lois  did  it  better;  which  was 
true,  no  doubt.  Or  Mr.  Lenox  himself  would  join 
them,  and  turn  everything  Tom  said  into  banter; 
till  Lois  could  not  help  laughing,  though  yet  she 
was  vexed. 

So  days  went  on.  And  then,  something  hap 
pened  to  relieve  both  parties  of  the  efforts  they 
were  making;  a  very  strange  thing  to  happen  at 
the  Isles  of  Shoals.  Mrs.  Wishart  was  taken  se- 


198  NOBODY. 

riously  ill.  She  had  not  been  quite  well  when  she 
came ;  and  she  always  afterwards  maintained  that 
the  air  did  not  agree  with  her.  Lois  thought  it 
could  not  be  the  air,  and  must  be  some  imprudence; 
but  however  it  were,  the  fact  was  undoubted. 
Mrs.  Wishart  was  ill;  and  the  doctor  who  was 
fetched  over  from  Portsmouth  to  see  her,  said  she 
could  not  be  moved,  and  must  be  carefully  nursed. 
Was  it  the  air?  It  couldn't  be  the  air,  he  an 
swered  ;  nobody  ever  got  sick  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
Was  it  some  imprudence?  Couldn't  be,  he  said; 
there  was  no  way  in  which  she  could  be  impru 
dent;  she  could  not  help  living  a  natural  life  at 
Appledore.  No,  it  was  something  the  seeds  of 
which  she  had  brought  with  her;  and  the  strong 
sea  air  had  developed  it.  Reasoning  which  Lois 
did  not  understand;  but  she  understood  nursing, 
and  gave  herself  to  it,  night  and  day.  There  was 
a  sudden  relief  to  Miss  Julia's  watch  and  ward; 
nobody  was  in  danger  of  saying  too  many  words 
to  Lois  now ;  nobody  could  get  a  chance ;  she  was 
only  seen  by  glimpses. 

"How  long  is  this  sort  of  thing  going  on?" 
inquired  Mr.  Lenox  one  afternoon.  He  and  Julia 
had  been  spending  a  very  unrefreshing  hour  on 
the  piazza  doing  nothing. 

"  Impossible  to  say." 

"  I'm  rather  tired  of  it.  How  long  has  Mrs. 
Wishart  been  laid  up,  now  ?  " 

"  A  week;  and  she  has  no  idea  of  being  moved. ' 

"Well,  are  we  fixtures  too?" 


TACTICS.  199 

"You  know  what  I  cauie  for,  George.  If  Tom 
will  go,  I  will,  and  thankful." 

"  Tom,"  said  the  gentleman,  as  Tom  at  this 
minute  came  out  of  the  house,  "have  you  got 
enough  of  Appledore  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  about  Appledore.  It's  the  fishing." 
Tom,  I  may  remark,  had  been  a  good  deal  out 
in  a  fishing  boat  during  this  past  week.  "  That's 
glorious." 

"  But  you  don't  care  for  fishing,  old  boy." 

" Oh,  don't  I!" 

"  No,  not  a  farthing.  Seriously,  don't  you  think 
we  might  mend  our  quarters  ?  " 

"You  can,"  said  Tom.  "Of  course  I  can't  go 
while  Mrs.  Wishart  is  sick.  I  can't  leave  those 
two  women  alone  here  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
You  can  take  Julia  and  my  mother  away,  where 
you  like." 

"And  a  good  riddance — "  muttered  Lenox,  as 
the  other  ran  down  the  steps  and  went  off. 

"  He  won't  stir,"  said  Julia.  "  You  see  how 
right  I  was." 

"Are  you  sure  about  it ? " 

"  Why  of  course  1  am  !  Quite  sure.  What  are 
you  thinking  about  ?  " 

"  Just  wondering  whether  you  might  have  made 
a  mistake." 

"  A  mistake !     How  ?     I  don't  make  mistakes." 

"  That's  pleasant  doctrine !  But  I  am  not  so 
certain.  I  have  been  thinking  whether  Tom  is 
likely  ever  to  get  anything  better." 


200  NOBODY. 

'*  Than  this  girl  ?  George,  don't  you  think  he 
deserves  something  better  ?  My  brother  ?  What 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Torn  has  got  an  enormous  fancy  for  her;  I  can 
see  that.  It's  not  play  with  him.  And  upon  my 
honour,  Julia,  I  do  not  think  she  would  do  any 
thing  to  wear  off  the  fancy." 

"Not  if  she  could  help  it! — "  returned  Julia 
scornfully. 

"  She  isn't  a  bit  of  a  flirt." 

"You  think  that  is  a  recommendation?  Men 
like  flirts.  This  girl  don't  know  how,  that  is  all." 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  knows  how  to  do  anything 
wrong." 

"  Now  do  set  up  a  discourse  in  praise  of  virtue ! 
What  if  she  don't  ?  That's  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
I  want  Tom  to  go  into  political  life." 

"A  virtuous  wife  wouldn't  hurt  him  there." 

"  And  an  ignorant,  country-bred,  untrained  wo 
man  wouldn't  help  him,  would  she  ?  " 

"  Tom  will  never  want  help  in  political  life,  for 
he  will  never  go  into  it.  Well,  I  have  said  my 
say,  and  resign  myself" to  Appledore  for  two  weeks 
longer.  Only,  mind  you,  I  question  if  Tom  will 
ever  get  anything  as  good  again  in  the  shape  of  a 
wife,  as  you  are  keeping  him  from  now.  It  is 
something  of  a  responsibility  to  play  Providence." 

The  situation  therefore  remained  unchanged  for 
several  days  more.  Mrs.  Wishart  needed  constant 
attention,  and  had  it;  and  nobody  else  saw  Lois 
for  more  than  the  merest  snatches  of  time.  I  think 


TACTICS.  201 

Lois  made  these  moments  as  short  as  she  could. 
Tom  was  in  despair,  but  stuck  to  his  post  and  his 
determination;  and  with  sighs  and  groans  his 
mother  and  sister  held  fast  to  theirs.  The  hotel 
at  Appledore  made  a  good  thing  of  it. 

Then  one  day  Tom  was  lounging  on  the  piazza 
at  the  time  of  the  steamer's  coming  in  from  Ports 
mouth  ;  and  in  a  short  time  thereafter  a  new  guest 
was  seen  advancing  towards  the  hotel.  Tom  gave 
her  a  glance  or  two ;  he  needed  no  more.  She  was 
middle-aged,  plain,  and  evidently  not  from  that 
quarter  of  the  world  where  Mr.  Tom  Caruthers 
was  known.  Neatly  dressed  however,  and  coming 
with  an  alert,  business  step  over  the  grass,  and  so 
she  mounted  to  the  piazza.  There  she  made  straight 
for  Tom,  who  was  the  only  person  visible. 

"  Is  this  the  place  where  a  lady  is  lying  sick  and 
another  lady  is  tendin'  her  ?  " 

"That  is  the  case  here,"  said  Tom  politely.  " Miss 
Lothrop  is  attending  upon  a  sick  friend  in  this 
house." 

"  That's  it — Miss  Lothrop.  I'm  her  aunt.  How's 
the  sick  lady  ?  Dangerous  ? 

"  Not  at  all,  I  should  say,"  returned  Tom ;  "  but 
Miss  Lothrop  is  very  much  confined  with  her.  She 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,  I  have  no  doubt.  Al 
low  me  to  see  about  your  room."  And  so  saying, 
he  would  have  relieved  the  new-comer  of  a  heavy 
hand  bag. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  holding  fast.  "You're 
very  obliging — but  when  I'm  away  from  home  I 


202  NOBODY. 

always  hold  fast  to  whatever  I've  got;  and  I'll  go 
to  Miss  Lothrop's  room.  Are  there  more  folks  in 
the  house  ?  " 

"Certainly.  Several.  This  way — I  will  shew 
you." 

"  Then  I  s'pose  there's  plenty  to  help  nurse,  and 
they  have  no  call  for  me  ?  " 

" 1  think  Miss  Lothrop  has  done  the  most  of  the 
nursing.  Your  coming  will  set  her  a  little  more 
at  liberty.  She  has  been  very  much  confined  with 
her  sick  friend." 

"  What  have  the  other  folks  been  about?  " 

"  Not  helping  much,  I  am  afraid.  And  of  course 
a  man  is  at  a  disadvantage  at  such  a  time." 

"Are  they  all  men?"  inquired  Mrs.  Marx  sud 
denly. 

41  No — I  was  thinking  of  my  own  case.  I  would 
have  been  very  glad  to  be  useful." 

«  Oh !  "—said  the  lady.  "  That's  the  sort  o'  world 
we  live  in ;  most  of  it  aint  good  for  much  when  it 
comes  to  the  pinch.  Thank  you — much  obliged." 

Tom  had  guided  her  upstairs  and  along  a  gal 
lery,  and  now  indicated  the  door  of  Lois's  room. 
Lois  was  quite  as  glad  to  see  her  aunt  as  Tom  had 
supposed  she  would  be. 

"Aunty! — Whatever  has  brought  you  here,  to 
the  Isles  of  Shoals?" 

"  Not  to  see  the  Isles,  you  may  bet.  I've  come 
to  look  after  you." 

"  Why  I'm  well  enough.  But  it's  very  good  of 
you." 


TACTICS.  203 

"  No,  it  aint,  for  I  wanted  an  excuse  to  see  what 
the  place  is  like.  You  haven't  grown  thin  yet. 
What's  all  the  folks  about,  that  they  let  you  do  all 
the  nursing  ?  " 

"0  it  .comes  to  me  naturally,  being  with  Mrs. 
Wishart.  Who  should  do  it  ?  " 

uTo  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Marx;  "who  should  do 
it  ?  Most  folks  are  good  at  keepin'  out  o'  the  way 
when  they  are  wanted.  There's  one  clever  chap 
in  the  house — he  shewed  me  the  way  up  here; 
who's  he?" 

"Fair  hair?" 

"  Yes,  and  curly.  A  handsome  fellow.  And  he 
knows  you." 

"  0  they  all  know  me  by  this  time." 

"  This  one  particularly  ?  " 

«  Well— I  knew  him  in  New  York." 

"  I  see !  What's  the  matter  with  this  sick 
woman  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  She  is  nervous,  and  feverish, 
and  does  not  seem  to  get  well  as  she  ought  to  do." 

"Well,  if  I  was  going  to  get  sick,  I'd  choose 
some  other  place  than  a  rock  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  ocean.  Seems  to  me  I  would.  One  never 
knows  what  one  may  be  left  to  do." 

"  One  cannot  generally  choose  where  one  will  be 
sick,"  said  Lois  smiling. 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  said  the  other  as  sharp  as  a 
needle.  "  If  one's  in  the  wrong  place,  one  can  keep 
up  till  one  can  get  to  the  right  one.  You  needn't 
tell  me.  I  know  it,  and  I've  done  it.  I've  held 


204  NOBODY. 

up  when  I  hadn't  feet  to  stand  upon,  nor  a  head 
to  hold.  If  you're  a  mind  to,  you  can.  Nervous, 
eh  ?  That's  the  trouble  o'  folks  that  haven't  enough 
to  do.  Mercy!  I  don't  wonder  they  get  nervous. 
But  you've  had  a  little  too  much,  Lois,  and  you 
shew  it.  Now  you  go  and  lie  down.  I'll  look 
after  the  nerves." 

"  How  are  they  all  at  home  ?  " 

"  Splendid !  Charity  goes  round  like  a  bee  in  a 
bottle,  as  usual.  Ma's  well ;  and  Madge  is  as  hand 
some  as  ever.  Garden's  growin'  up  to  weeds,  and 
I  don't  see  as  there's  anybody  to  help  it ;  but  that 
corner  peach  tree's  ripe,  and  as  good  as  if  you  had 
fifteen  gardeners." 

"  It's  time  I  was  home !  "  said  Lois  sighing. 

"No,  it  aint, — not  if  you're  havin'  a  good  time 
here.  Are  you  havin'  a  good  time  ?  " 

"  Why  I've  been  doing  nothing  but  take  care  of 
Mrs.  Wishart  for  this  week  past." 

"  Well,  now  I'm  here.  You  go  off.  Do  you  like 
this  queer  place,  I  want  to  know  ?  " 

"Aunty,  it  is  just  perfectly  delightful !  " 

"  Is  it  ?  I  don't  see  it.  Maybe  I  will  by  and  by. 
Now  go  off,  Lois." 

Mrs.  Marx  from  this  time  took  upon  herself  the 
post  of  head  nurse.  Lois  was  free  to  go  out  as 
much  as  she  pleased.  Yet  she  made  less  use  of 
this  freedom  than  might  have  been  expected, 
and  still  confined  herself  unnecessarily  to  the  sick 
room. 

"Why  don't  you  go?"  her  aunt  remonstrated. 


TACTICS.  205 

"  Seems  to  me  you  aint  so  dreadful  fond  of  the  Isles 
of  Shoals  after  all." 

"If  one  could  be  alone!"  sighed  Lois;  "but 
there  is  always  a  pack  at  my  heels." 

"Alone!  Is  that  what  you're  after ?  I  thought 
half  the  fun  was  to  see  the  folks." 

"  Well,  some  of  them,"  said  Lois.  "  But  as  sure 
as  I  go  out  to  have  a  good  time  with  the  rocks 
and  the  sea,  as  I  like  to  have  it,  there  comes  first 
one  and  then  another  and  then  another,  and  maybe 
a  fourth;  and  the  game  is  up." 

"Why?  I  don't  see  how  they  should  spoil 
it." 

"0  they  do  not  care  for  the  things  I  care  for; 
the  sea  is  nothing  to  them,  and  the  rocks  less  than 
nothing;  and  instead  of  being  quiet,  they  talk  non 
sense,  or  what  seems  nonsense  to  me;  and  I'd  as 
lieve  be  at  home." 

"  What  do  they  go  for  then?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  they  do  not  know  what 
to  do  with  themselves." 

"What  do  they  stay  here  for,  then,  for  pity's 
sake?  If  they  are  tired,  why  don't  they  go  away?" 

"  I  can't  tell.  That  is  what  I  have  asked  myself 
a  great  many  times.  They  are  all  as  well  as  fishes, 
every  one  of  them." 

Mrs.  Marx  held  her  peace  and  let  things  go  their 
train  for  a  few  days  more.  Mrs.  Wishart  still  gave 
her  and  Lois  a  good  deal  to  do,  though  her  ail 
ments  aroused  no  anxiety.  After  those  few  days, 
Mrs.  Marx  spoke  again. 


206  NOBODY. 

"What  keeps  you  so  mum?"  she  said  to  Lois. 
"Why  don't  you  talk,  as  other  folks  do?" 

"  I  hardly  see  them,  you  know,  except  at  meals." 

"Why  don't  you  talk  at  meal  times?  that's  what 
I  am  askin'  about.  You  can  talk  as  well  as  any 
body;  and  you  sit  as  mum  as  a  stick." 

"Aunty,  they  all  talk  about  things  I  do  not 
understand." 

"Then  I'd  talk  of  samething  they  don't  under 
stand.  Two  can  play  at  that  game." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  amusing,"  said  Lois  laughing. 

"Do  you  call  their  talk  amusing?  It's  the  stu 
pidest  stuff  I  ever  did  hear.  I  can't  make  head  or 
tail  of  it;  nor  I  don't  believe  they  can.  Sounds  to 
me  as  if  they  were  tryin'  amazin'  hard  to  be  witty, 
and  couldn't  make  it  out." 

"It  sounds  a  good  deal  like  that — "  Lois  as 
sented. 

"They  go  on  just  as  if  you  wasn't  there!" 

"And  why  shouldn't  they?" 

"  Because  you  are  there." 

"  I  am  nothing  to  them,"  said  Lois  quietly. 

"Nothing  to  them!  You  are  worth  the  whole 
lot." 

"They  do  not  think  so." 

"And  politeness  is  politeness." 

"  I  sometimes  think,"  said  Lois,  "  that  politeness 
is  rudeness." 

"Well  I  wouldn't  let  myself  be  put  in  a  corner 
so,  if  I  was  you." 

"But  I  am  in  a  corner,  to  them.     All  the  world 


TACTICS.  207 

is  where  they  live ;  and  I  live  in  a  little  corner  down 
by  Shampuashuh  " 

"Nobody's  big  enough  to  live  in  more  than  a 
corner — if  you  come  to  that;  and  one  corner's  as 
good  as -another.  That's  nonsense,  Lois." 

"Maybe,  aunty.  But  there  is  a  certain  knowl 
edge  of  the  world,  and  habit  of  the  world,  which 
makes  some  people  very  diiferent  from  other  peo 
ple;  you  can't  help  that." 

"I  don't  want  to  help  it?"  said  Mrs.  Marx.  "I 
wouldn't  have  you  like  them,  for  all  the  black 
sheep  in  my  flock." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION. 

A  FEW  more  days  went  by;  and  then  Mrs.  Wish- 
art  began  to  mend;  so  much  that  she  insisted 
her  friends  must  not  shut  themselves  up  with  her. 
"Do  go  down  stairs  and  see  the  people! "  she  said; 
"or  take  your  kind  aunt,  Lois,  and  shew  her  the 
wonders  of  Appledore.  Is  all  the  world  gone  yet  ?  " 

"Nobody's  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Marx;  "except  one 
thick  man  and  one  thin  one;  and  neither  of  'em 
counts." 

"  Are  the  Caruthers  here  ?  " 

"  Every  man  of  'em." 

"There  is  only  one  man  of  them;  unless  you 
count  Mr.  Lenox." 

"  I  don't  count  him.  I  count  that  fair-haired 
chap.  All  the  rest  of  'em  are  stay  in'  for  him." 

"Staying  for  him!"  repeated  Mrs.  Wishart." 

"That's  what  they  say.  They  seem  to  take  it 
sort  o'  hard,  that  Tom's  so  fond  of  Appledore." 

Mrs.  Wishart  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  she 

smiled. 

(208) 


MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION.  209 

"He  spends  his  time  trollin'  for  blue  fish," — Mrs. 
Marx  went  on. 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say.  Do  go  down,  Mrs.  Marx,  and 
take  a  walk,  and  see  if  he  has  caught  anything." 

Lois  would  not  go  along;  she  told  her  aunt  what 
to  look  for  and  which  way  to  take,  and  said  she 
would  sit  still  with  Mrs.  Wishart  and  keep  her 
amused. 

At  the  very  edge  of  the  narrow  valley  in  which 
the  house  stood,  Mrs.  Marx  came  face  to  face  with 
Tom  Caruthers.  Tom  pulled  off  his  hat  with 
great  civility  and  asked  if  he  could  do  anything 
for  her. 

"Well,  you  can  set  me  straight,  I  guess,"  said 
the  lady.  "  Lois  told  me  which  way  to  go,  but  I 
don't  seem  to  be  any  wiser.  Where's  the  old  dead 
village?  South,  she  said;  but  in  such  a  little  place 
south  and  north  seems  all  alike.  I  don'  know 
which  is  south." 

"You  are  not  far  out  of  the  way,"  said  Tom. 
"  Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  shewing  you.  Why 
did  you  not  bring  Miss  Lothrop  out  ?  " 

"Best  reason  in  the  world;  I  couldn't.  She 
would  stay  and  see  to  Mrs.  Wishart." 

"That's  the  sort  of  nurse  I  should  like  to  have 
take  care  of  me,"  said  Tom,  "if  ever  I  was  in 
trouble." 

"  Ah,  wouldn't  you ! "  returned  Mrs.  Marx. 
"That's  a  kind  o'  nurses  that  aint  in  the  mar 
ket.  Look  here,  young  man  —  where  are  we 
going?" 


210  NOBODY. 

"  All  right,"  said  Tom.  "  Just  round  over  these 
rocks.  The  village  was  at  the  south  end  of  the 
Island,  as  Miss  Lois  said.  I  believe  she  has  studied 
up  Appledore  twice  as  much  as  any  of  the  rest 
of  us." 

It  was  a  fresh  sunny  day  in  September ;  every 
thing  at  Appledore  was  in  a  kind  of  glory,  difficult 
to  describe  in  words,  and  which  no  painter  ever 
yet  put  on  canvas.  There  was  wind  enough  to 
toss  the  waves  in  lively  style ;  and  when  the  two 
companions  came  out  upon  the  scene  of  the  one 
time  settlement  of  Appledore,  all  brilliance  of  light 
and  air  and  colour  seemed  to  be  sparkling  together. 
Under  this  glory  lay  the  ruins  and  remains  of  what 
had  been  once  homes  and  dwelling  places  of  men. 
Grass-grown  cellar  excavations,  moss-grown  stones 
and  bits  of  walls ;  little  else ;  but  a  number  of  those 
lying  soi't  and  sunny  in  the  September  light.  Soft, 
and  sunny,  and  lonely;  no  trace  of  human  habita 
tion  any  longer,  where  once  human  activity  had 
been  in  full  play.  Silence,  where  the  babble  of  voices 
had  been ;  emptiness,  where  young  feet  and  old  feet 
had  gone  in  and  out;  barrenness,  where  the  fruits 
of  human  industry  had  been  busily  gathered  and 
dispensed.  Something  in  the  quiet,  sunny  scene 
stilled  for  a  moment  the  not  very  sensitive  spirits 
of  the  two  who  had  come  to  visit  it;  while  the  sea 
waves  rose  and  broke  in  their  old  fashion,  as  they 
had  done  on  those  same  rocks  in  old  time,  and 
would  do,  for  generation  after  generation  yet  to 
come.  That  was  always  the  same.  It  made  the 


MRS.  "MARX'S  OPINION.  211 

contrast  greater  with  what  had  passed  and  was 
passing  away. 

"There  was  a  good  many  of  'em." — Mrs.  Marx' 
voice  broke  the  pause  which  had  come  upon  the  talk. 

"  Quite  a  village,"  her  companion  assented. 

"  Why  aint  they  here  now  ?  " 

"Dead  and  gone?" — suggested  Tom,  half  laugh 
ing. 

"  Of  course  !  I  mean,  why  aint  the  village  here, 
and  the  people  ?  The  people  are  somewhere — the 
children  and  grandchildren  of  those  that  lived  here ; 
what's  become  of  'em  ?  " 

"  That's  true,"  said  Tom ;  "  they  are  somewhere. 
I  believe  they  are  to  be  found  scattered  along  the 
coast  of  the  mainland." 

"  Got  tired  o'  livin'  between  sea  and  sky  with 
no  ground  to  speak  of.  Well,  I  should  think  they 
would!" 

"Miss  Lothrop  says,  on  the  contrary,  that  they 
never  get  tired  of  it,  the  people  who  live  here ;  and 
that  nothing  but  necessity  forced  the  former  inhab 
itants  to  abandon  Appledore." 

"  What  sort  of  necessity  ?  " 

"  Too  exposed,  in  the  time  of  the  war." 

"Ah!   likely.     Well,    we'll   go,    Mr.    Caruthers- 
this  sort  o'  thing  makes  me  melancholy,  and  that' 
against  my  principles  to  be."     Yet  she  stood  still 
looking. 

"  Miss  Lothrop  likes  this  place,"  Tom  remarked. 

"Then  it  don't  make  her  melancholy." 

"Does  anything?" 


212  NOBODY. 

"  I  hope  so.     She's  human." 

"  But  she  seems  to  me  always  to  have  the  sweet 
est  air  of  happiness  about  her,  that  ever  I  saw  in 
a  human  being." 

"  Have  you  got  where  you  can  see  air?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Marx  sharply.  Tom  laughed. 

"  I  mean,  that  she  finds  something  everywhere 
to  like  and  to  take  pleasure  in.  Now  I  confess, 
this  bit  of  ground,  full  of  graves  and  old  excava 
tions,  has  no  particular  charms  for  me;  and  my  sis 
ter  will  not  stay  here  a  minute." 

"  And  what  does  Lois  find  here  to  delight  her  ?  " 

"  Everything !  "  said  Tom  with  enthusiasm.  "  I 
was  with  her  the  first  time  she  came  to  this  cor 
ner  of  the  island, — and  it  was  a  lesson,  to  see  her 
delight.  The  old  cellars  and  the  old  stones,  and 
the  graves;  and  then  the  short  green  turf  that 
grows  among  them,  and  the  flowers  and  weeds 
— what  /  call  weeds,  who  know  no  better — but 
Miss  Lois  tried  to  make  me  see  the  beauty  of  the 
sumach  and  all  the  rest  of  it — " 

"  And  she  couldn't !  "  said  Mrs.  Marx.  "  Well, 
I  can't.  The  noise  of  the  sea,  and  the  sight  of  it, 
eternally  breaking  there  upon  the  rocks,  would 
drive  me  out  of  my  mind,  I  believe,  after  a  while." 
And  yet  Mrs.  Marx  sat  down  upon  a  turfy  bank 
and  looked  contentedly  about  her. 

"  Mrs.  Marx,"  said  Tom  suddenly,  "  you  are  a 
good  friend  of  Miss  Lothrop,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Try  to  be  a  friend  to  everybody.  I've  counted 
sixty-six  o'  these  old  cellars ! " 


MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION.  213 

"I  believe  there  are  more  than  that.  I  think 
Miss  Lothrop  said  seventy." 

"  She  seems  to  have  told  you  a  good  deal." 

"I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  here  alone  with 
her.  Miss  Lothrop  is  often  very  silent  in  company. 

"  So  I  observe,"  said  Mrs.  Marx  dryly. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  my  friend  too! "  said  Tom,  now 
taking  a  seat  by  her  side.  "You  said  you  are  a 
friend  of  everybody." 

"That  is,  of  everybody  who  needs  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Marx,  casting  a  side  look  at  Tom's  handsome,  win 
ning  countenance.  "I  judge,  young  man,  that  aint 
your  case." 

"  But  it  is,  indeed ! " 

"  Maybe,"  said  Mrs.  Marx  incredulously.  "  Go  on, 
and  let's  hear." 

"  You  will  let  me  speak  to  you  frankly  ?  " 

"Don't  like  any  other  sort." 

"  And  you  will  answer  me  also  frankly  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  one  thing  I 
can  say:  if  I've  got  the  answer,  I'll  give  it  to  you." 

"  I  don't  know  who  should,"  said  Tom  flatteringly, 
"if  not  you.  I  thought  I  could  trust  you,  when 
I  had  seen  you  a  few  times." 

"Maybe  you  won't  think  so  after  to-day.  SBut 
go  on.  What's  the  business  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  important  business — "  said  Tom  slowly ; 
"and  it  concerns — Miss  Lothrop." 

"You  have  got  hold  of  me  now,"  said  Lois's  aunt. 
"I'll  go  into  the  business,  you  may  depend  upon 
it.  What  is  the  business  ?  " 


214  NOBODY. 

"  Mrs.  Marx,  I  have  a  great  admiration  for  Miss 
Lothrop." 

"  I  dare  say.     So  have  some  other  folks." 

"  I  have  had  it  for  a  long  while.  I  came  here 
because  I  heard  she  was  coming.  I  have  lost  my 
heart  to  her,  Mrs.  Marx." 

"Ah! —  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 
or  what  can  I  do  about  it  ?  Lost  hearts  can't  be 
picked  up  under  every  bush." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  I  shall  do." 

"What  hinders  your  making  up  your  own 
mind?" 

"  It  is  made  up ! — long  ago." 

"Then  act  upon  it.  What  hinders  you?  I  don't 
see  what  I  have  got  to  do  with  that." 

"  Mrs.  Marx, — do  you  think  she  would  have  me 
if  I  asked  her  ?  As  a  friend,  won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should, — if  I  knew, — which  1 
don't.  I  don't  see  how  it  would  be  a  friend's  part. 
Why  should  I  tell  you,  supposin'  I  could?  She's 
the  only  person  that  knows  anything  about  it.". 

Tom  pulled  his  moustache  right  and  left  in  a 
worried  manner. 

"  Have  you  asked  her  ?  " 

"  Haven't  had  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  since  I  have 
been  here !  "  cried  the  young  man ;  "  and  she  isn't 
like  other  girls;  she  don't  give  a  fellow  a  bit  of 
help." 

Mrs.  Marx  laughed  out. 

"I  mean,"  said  Tom,  "she  is  so  quiet  and  steady, 
and  she  don't  talk,  and  she  don't  let  one  see  what 


MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION.  215 

she  thinks.  I  think  she  must  know  I  like  her — 
but  I  have  not  the  least  idea  whether  she  likes 
me." 

"The  shortest  way  would  be  to  ask  her." 

"  Yes,,  but  you  see  I  can't  get  a  chance.  Miss 
Lothrop  is  always  up  stairs  in  that  sick  room — and 
if  she  comes  down,  my  sister  or  my  mother  or 
somebody  is  sure  to  be  running  after  her." 

"  Besides  you,"  said  Mrs.  Marx. 

"  Yes,  besides  me." 

"  Perhaps  they  don't  want  to  let  you  have  her  all 
to  yourself." 

"  That's  the  deuced  truth  !  "  said  Tom  in  a  burst 
of  vexed  candour. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  afraid  you  will  do  something 
imprudent  if  they  do  not  take  care." 

"  That's  what  they  call  it,  with  their  ridiculous 
ways  of  looking  at  things.  Mrs.  Marx,  I  wish  peo 
ple  had  sense." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  right.  Perhaps  they  have 
sense,  and  it  would  be  imprudent." 

"Why?  Mrs.  Marx,  I  am  sure  you  have  sense. 
I  have  plenty  to  live  upon,  and  live  as  I  like. 
There  is  no  difficulty  in  my  case  about  ways  and 
means." 

"  What  is  the  difficulty,  then  ?  " 

"  You  see,  I  don't  want  to  go  against  my  mother 
and  sister,  unless  I  had  some .  encouragement  to 
think  that  Miss  Lothrop  would  listen  to  me ;  and  I 
thought — I  hoped — you  would  be  able  to  help  me." 

"  How  can  I  help  you  ?  " 


216  NOBODY. 

"Tell  me  what  I  shall  do." 

"  Well,  when  it  comes  to  marryin',"  said  Mrs. 
Marx,  "  I  always  say  to  folks,  If  you  can  live  and 
get  along  without  gettin'  married — don't !  " 

"  Don't  get  married  ?  " 

"Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Marx.  "Don't  get  married; 
not  if  you  can  live  without." 

"  You  to  speak  so !  "  said  Tom.  "  I  never  should 
have  thought,  Mrs.  Marx,  you  were  one  of  that  sort." 

"  What  sort  ?  " 

"  The  sort  that  talk  against  marriage." 

"I  don't! — only  against  marryin'  the  wrong  one; 
and  unless  it's  somebody  that  you  can't  live  with 
out,  you  may  be  sure  it  aint  the  right  one." 

"  How  many  people  in  the  world  do  you  suppose 
are  married  on  that  principle  ?  " 

"  Everybody  that  has  any  business  to  be  married 
at  all,"  responded  the  lady  with  great  decision. 

"Well,  honestly,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  live 
without  Miss  Lothrop.  I've  been  thinking  about 
it  for  months." 

"  I  wouldn't  stay  much  longer  in  that  state,"  said 
Mrs.  Marx, — "if  I  was  you.  When  people  don' 
know  whether  they're  goin'  to  live  or  die,  their  ex 
istence  aint  much  good  to  'em." 

"  Then  you  think  I  may  ask  her  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  first,  what  would  happen  if  you  did — 
that  is,  supposin'  she  said  yes  to  you,  about  which 
I  don't  know  anything,  no  more'n  the  people  that 
lived  in  these  old  cellars.  What  would  happen  if 
you  did?  and  if  she  did?" 


MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION.  217 

"  I  would  make  her  happy,  Mrs.  Marx !  " 

"Yes — "  said  the  lady  slowly — "I  guess  you 
would;  for  Lois  won't  say  yes  to  anybody  she  can 
live  without;  and  I've  a  good  opinion  of  your  dis 
position  ;  but  what  would  happen  to  other  people  ?  " 

"  My  mother  and  sister,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Them,  or  anybody  else  that's  concerned." 

"There  is  nobody  else  concerned,"  said  Tom,  idly 
defacing  the  rocks  in  his  neighbourhood  by  tearing 
the  lichen  from  them.  And  Mrs.  Marx  watched 
him  and  patiently  waited. 

"  There  is  no  sense  in  it ! "  he  broke  out  at  last. 
"  It  is  all  folly.  Mrs.  Marx,  what  is  life  good  for, 
but  to  be  happy  ?  " 

"Just  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Marx. 

"  And  haven't  I  a  right  to  be  happy  in  my  own 
way  ?  " 

"  If  you  can." 

"  So  I  think !  I  will  ask  Miss  Lothrop  if  she  will 
have  me  this  very  day.  I'm  determined." 

"But  I  said,  if  you  can.  Happiness  is  some- 
thin'  besides  sugar  and  water.  What  else'll  go 
in?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Tom,  looking  at 
her. 

"Suppose  you're  satisfied,  and  suppose  slies  satis 
fied.  Will  everybody  else  be  ?  " 

Tom  went  at  the  rocks  again. 

"  It's  my  affair — and  hers,"  he  said  then. 

"  And  what  will  your  mother  and  sister  say  ?  " 

"Julia  has  chosen  for  herself." 


218  NOBODY. 

"  I  should  say,  she  has  chosen  very  well.  Does 
she  like  your^choice." 

"Mrs.  Marx,"  said  the  poor  young  man,  leaving 
the  lichens,  "  they  bother  me  to  death !  " 

"Ah?     How  is  that?" 

"Always  watching,  arid  hanging  around,  and 
giving  a  fellow  no  chance  for  his  life,  and  putting 
in  their  word.  They  call  themselves  very  wise, 
but  I  think  it  is  the  other  thing." 

"  They  don't  approve,  then  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  money!"  cried  Tom; 
"and  I  don't  care  for  fashionable  girls.  I'm  tired 
of  'em.  Lois  is  worth  the  whole  lot.  Such  absurd 
stuff!  And  she  is  handsomer  than  any  girl  that 
was  in  town  last  winter." 

"  They  want  a  fashionable  girl — "  said  Mrs.  Marx 
calmly. 

"  Well,  you.  see,"  said  Tom,  "  they  live  for  that. 
If  an  angel  was  to  come  down  from  heaven,  they 
would  say  her  dress  wasn't  cut  right,  and  they 
wouldn't  ask  her  to  dinner!" 

"  I  don't  suppose  they'd  know  how  to  talk  to  her, 
either,  if  they  did,"  said  Mrs.  Marx.  "It  would  be 
uncomfortable;  for  them;  I  don't  suppose  an  angel 
can  be  uncomfortable.  But  Lois  aint  an  angel.  I 
guess  you'd  better  give  it  up,  Mr.  Caruthers." 

Tom  turned  towards  her  a  dismayed  kind  of  look, 
but  did  not  speak. 

"You  see,"  Mrs.  Marx  went  on,  "things  haven't 
gone  very  far.  Lois  is  all  right;  and  you'll  come 
back  to  life  again.  A  fish  that  swims  in  fresh  wa- 


MRS.  MARX'S  OPINION.  219 

ter  couldn't  go  along  very  well  with  one  that  lires 
in  the  salt.  That's  how  I  look  at  it.  Lois  is  one 
sort,  and  you're  another.  I  don't  know  but  both 
sorts  are  good ;  but  they  are  different,  and  you  can't 
make  'em  alike. 

"I  would  never  want  her  to  be  different!"  burst 
out  Tom. 

"  Well,  you  see,  she  aint  your  sort  exactly,"  Mrs. 
Marx  added,  but  not  as  it'  she  were  depressed  by 
the  consideration.  "And  then,  Lois  is  religious." 

"  You  don't  think  that  is  a  difficulty  ?  Mrs.  Marx, 
I  am  not  a  religious  man  myself;  at  least  I  have 
never  made  any  profession;  but  I  assure  you  I  have 
a  great  respect  for  religion." 

"That  is  what  folks  say  of  something  a  great 
way  off,  and  that  they  don't  want  to  come  nearer." 

"  My  mother  and  sister  are  members  of  the  church ; 
and  I  should  like  my  wife  to  be,  too." 

"Why?" 

"  I  told  you,  I  have  a  great  respect  for  religion; 
arid  I  believe  in  it  especially  for  women." 

"  I  don't  see  why  what's  good  for  them  shouldn't 
be  good  for  you." 

"  That  need  be  no  hindrance,"  Tom  urged. 

"  Well,  I  don'  know.  I  guess  Lois  would  think 
it  was.  And  maybe  you  would  think  it  was,  too, 
come  to  find  out.  I  guess  you'd  better  let  things 
be,  Mr.  Caruthers." 

Tom  looked  very  gloomy.  "  You  think  she  would 
not  have  me  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  I  think  you  will  get  over  it,"  said  Mrs.  Marx 


220  NOBODY. 

rising.  "And  I  think  you  had  better  find  somebody 
that  will  suit  your  mother  and  sister." 

And  after  that  time,  it  may  be  said,  Mrs.  Marx 
was  as  careful  of  Lois  on  the  one  side  as  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Caruthers  were  of  Tom  on  the  other.  Two  or 
three  more  days  passed  away. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Wishart  V "  Miss  Julia  asked  one 
afternoon. 

*'  First-rate,"  answered  Mrs.  Marx.  "  She's  sittin' 
up.  She'll  be  off  and  away  before  you  know  it." 

"Will  you  stay,  Mrs.  Marx,  to  help  in  the  care 
of  her,  till  she  is  able  to  move?" 

"  Came  for  nothin'  else." 

"Then  I  do  not  see,  mother,  what  good  we  can 
do  by  remaining  longer.  Could  we,  Mrs.  Marx?" 

"  Nothin',  but  lose  your  chance  o'  somethin'  bet 
ter,  I  should  say." 

"Tom,  do  you  want  to  do  any  more  fishing? 
Aren't  you  ready  to  go  ?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like — "  said  Tom  gloomily. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
TOM'S  DECISION. 

THE  Caruthers  family  took  their  departure  from 
Appledore. 

"  Well,  we  have  had  to  fight  for  it,  but  we  have 
saved  Tom,"  Julia  remarked  to  Mr.  Lenox,  standing 
by  the  guards  and  looking  back  at  the  islands  as 
the  steamer  bore  them  away. 

"Saved!—" 

"Yes!"  she  said  decidedly, — "we  have  saved 
him." 

"It's  a  responsibility — "  said  the  gentleman, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "I  am  not  clear  that 
you  have  not  *  saved '  Tom  from  a  better  thing  than 
he'll  ever  find  again." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  her ! "  said  Miss  Julia  sharply. 
"  How  ridiculous  all  you  men  are  about  a  pretty 
face!" 

The  remaining  days  of  her  stay  in  Appledore  Lois 
roved  about  to  her  heart's  content.  And  yet,  I  will 
not  say  that  her  enjoyment  of  rocks  and  waves  was 
just  what  it  had  been  at  her  first  arrival.  The  isl 
and  seemed  empty,  somehow.  Appledore  is  lovely 

(221) 


222  NOBODY. 

in  September  and  October;  and  Lois  sat  on  the  rocks 
and  watched  the  play  of  the  waves,  and  delighted 
herself  in  the  changing  colours  of  sea  and  sky  and 
clouds,  and  gathered  wild  flowers,  and  picked  up 
shells;  but  there  was  somehow  very  present  to  her 
the  vision  of  a  fair,  kindly,  handsome  face,  and  eyes 
that  sought  hers  eagerly,  and  hands  that  were  ready 
gladly  with  any  little  service  that  there  was  room 
to  render.  She  was  no  longer  troubled  by  a  group 
of  people  dogging  her  footsteps ;  and  she  found  now 
that  there  had  been,  however  inopportune,  a  little 
excitement  in  that.  It  was  very  well  they  were 
gone,  she  acknowledged;  for  Mr.  Carut.hers  might 
have  come  to  like  her  too  well,  and  that  would 
have  been  inconvenient;  and  }7et,  it  is  so  pleasant  to 
be  liked !  Upon  the  sober  humdrum  of  Lois's  every 
day  home  life,  Tom  Caruthers  waslike  a  bit  of  brilliant 
embroidery ;  and  we  know  how  involuntarily  the  eyes 
seek  out  such  a  spot  of  colour,  and  how  they  return 
to  it.  Yes;  life  at  home  was  exceedingly  pleasant, 
but  it  was  a  picture  in  grey;  this  was  a  dash  of  blue 
and  gold.  It  had  better  be  grey,  Lois  said  to  her 
self;  life  is  not  glitter.  And  yet,  a  little  bit  of  glitter 
on  the  greys  and  browns  is  so  delightful.  Well,  it 
was  gone.  There  was  small  hope  now  that  anything 
so  brilliant  would  ever  illuminate  her  quiet  course 
again.  Lois  sat  on  the  rocks  and  looked  at  the  sea, 
and  thought  about  it.  If  they,  Tom  and  his  friends, 
had  not  come  to  Appledore  at  all,  her  visit  would 
have  been  most  delightful;  nay,  it  had  been  most 
delightful,  whether  or  no;  but — this  and  her  New 


TOM'S  DECISION.  223 

York  experience  had  given  Lois  a  new  standard  by 
which  to  measure  life,  and  men.  From  one  point 
of  view,  it  is  true,  the  new  lost  in  comparison  with 
the  old.  Tom  and  his  people  were  not  "religious." 
They  knew  nothing  of  what  made  her  own  life  so 
sweet;  they  had  not  her  prospects  or  joys  in  looking 
on  towards  the  far  future,  nor  her  strength  and 
security  in  view  of  the  trials  and  vicissitudes  of 
earth  and  time.  She  had  the  best  of  it;  as  she  joy 
fully  confessed  to  herself,  seeing  the  glorious  break 
ing  waves  and  watching  the  play  of  light  on  them, 
and  recalling  Cowper's  words — 

"  My  Father  made  them  all ! " 

But  there  remained  another  aspect  of  the  matter 
which  raised  other  feelings  in  the  girl's  mind. 
The  difference  in  education.  Those  people  could 
speak  French,  and  Mr.  Caruthers  could  speak 
Spanish,  and  Mr.  Lenox  spoke  German.  Whether 
well  or  ill,  Lois  did  not  know;  but  in  any  case, 
how  many  doors,  in  literature  and  in  life,  stood 
open  to  them ;  which  were  closed  and  locked  doors 
to  her.  And  we  all  know,  that  ever  since  Blue 
beard's  time — I  might  go  back  further  and  say, 
ever  since  Eve's  time — Eve's  daughters  have  been 
unable  to  stand  before  a  closed  door  without  the 
wish  to  open  it.  The  impulse,  partly  for  good, 
partly  for  evil,  is  incontestable.  Lois  fairly  longed 
to  know  what  Tom  and  his*  sister  knew,  in  the 
fields  of  learning.  And  there  were  other  fields. 
There  was  a  certain  light,  graceful,  inimitable, 


224  NOBODY. 

habit  of  the  world  and  of  society ;  familiarity  with 
all  the  pretty  and  refined  ways  and  uses  of  the 
more  refined  portions  of  society;  knowledge  and 
practice  of  proprieties,  as  the  above  mentioned 
classes  of  the  world  recognize  them;  which  all 
seemed  to  Lois  greatly  desirable  and  becoming. 
Nay,  the  said  "proprieties"  and  so  forth  were  not 
always  of  the  most  important  kind;  Miss  Caru- 
thers  could  be  what  Lois  considered  coolly  rude, 
upon  occasion;  and  her  mother  could  be  care 
lessly  impolite;  and  Mr.  Lenox  could  be  wanting 
in  the  delicate  regard  which  a  gentleman  should 
shew  to  a  lady;  "I  suppose,"  thought  Lois,  "he 
did  not  think  I  would  know  any  better."  In  these 
things,  these  essential  things,  some  of  the  farmers 
of  Shampuashuh  and  their  wives  were  the  peers  at 
least,  if  not  the  superiors,  of  these  fine  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  But  in  lesser  things!  These  people 
knew  how  to  walk  gracefully,  sit  gracefully,  eat 
gracefully.  Their  manner  and  address  in  all  the 
little  details  of  life,  had  the  ease  and  polish  and 
charm  which  comes  of  use  and  habit  and  confi 
dence.  The  way  Mr.  Lenox  and  Tom  would  give 
help  to  a  lady  in  getting  over  the  rough  rocks  of 
Appledore ;  the  deference  with  which  they  would 
attend  to  her  comfort  and  provide  for  her  pleasure ; 
the  grace  of  a  bow,  the  good  breeding  of  a  smile; 
the  ease  of  action  which  comes  from  trained  physi 
cal  and  practised  mental  nature ;  these  and  a  great 
deal  more,  even  the  details  of  dress  and  equipment 
which  are  only  possible  to  those  who  know  how,  and 


TOM'S  DECISION.  225 

which  are  instantly  seen  to  be  excellent  and  becom 
ing,  even  by  those  who  do  not  know  how ;  all  this 
had  appealed  mightily  to  Lois's  nature,  and  raised 
in  her  longings  and  regrets  more  or  less  vague, 
but  very  real.  All  that,  she  would  like  to  have. 
She  wanted  the  familiarity  with  books,  and  also 
the  familiarity  with  the  world,  which  some  people 
had;  the  secure  a  plomb  and  the  easy  facility  of 
manner  which  are  so  imposing  and  so  attractive  to 
a  girl  like  Lois.  She  felt  that  to  these  people  life 
was  richer,  larger,  wider,  than  to  her;  its  riches 
more  at  command;  the  standpoint  higher  from 
which  to  take  a  view  of  the  world;  the  facility 
greater  which  could  get  from  the  world  what  it 
had  to  give.  And  it  was  a  closed  door  before  which 
Lois  stood.  Truly  on  her  side  of  the  door  there 
was  very  much  that  she  had  and  they  had  not; 
she  knew  that,  and  did  not  fail  to  recognize  it  and 
appreciate  it.  What  was  the  Lord's  beautiful  cre 
ation  to  them  ?  a  place  to  kill  time  in  and  get  rid 
of  it  as  fast  as  possible.  The  ocean,  to  them,  was 
little  but  a  great  bath  tub ;  or  a  very  inconvenient 
separating  medium  which  prevented  them  from 
going  constantly  to  Paris  and  Rome.  To  judge  by 
all  that  appeared,  the  sky  had  no  colours  for  them, 
and  the  wind  no  voices,  and  the  flowers  no  speech. 
And  as  for  the  Bible,  and  the  hopes  and  joys  which 
take  their  source  there,  they  knew  no  more  of  it  so 
than  if  they  had  been  Mahometans.  They  took 
no  additional  pleasure  in  the  things  of  the  natural 
world  because  those  things  were  made  by  a  hand 


226  NOBODY. 

that  they  loved.  Poor  people!  and  Lois  knew 
they  were  poor;  and  yet — she  said  to  herself,  and 
also  truly,  that  the  possession  of  her  knowledge 
would  not  be  lessened  by  the  possession  of  theirs. 
And  a  little  pensiveness  mingled  for  a  few  days 
with  her  enjoyment  of  Appledore.  Meanwhile, 
Mrs.  Wishart  was  getting  well. 

"  So  they  have  all  gone !  "  she  said,  a  day  or  two 
after  the  Caruthers  party  had  taken  themselves 
away. 

"Yes,  and  Appledore  seems,  you  can't  think  how 
lonely,"  said  Lois.  She  had  just  come  in  from  a 
ramble. 

"  You  saw  a  great  deal  of  them,  dear  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  good  deal.  Did  you  ever  see  such 
bright  pimpernel  ?  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  how  Tom  could  get  away." 

"  I  believe  he  did  not  want  to  go." 

"  Why  didn't  you  keep  him  ?  " 

"  I !  "  said  Lois  with  an  astonished  start.  "Why 
should  I  keep  him,  Mrs.  Wishart  ?  " 

"Because  he  likes  you  so  much." 

"Does  he?"  said  Lois  a  little  bitterly. 

"Yes!  Don't  you  like  him?  How  do  you  like 
him,  Lois  ?  " 

"He  is  nice,  Mrs.  Wishart.  But  if  you  ask  me,  I 
do  not  think  he  has  enough  strength  of  character." 

"  If  Tom  has  let  them  carry  him  off  against  his 
will,  he  is  rather  weak." 

Lois  made  no  answer.  Had  he  ?  and  had  they 
done  it?  A  vague  notion  of  what  might  be  the 


TOM'S  DECISION.  227 

truth  of  the  whole  transaction  floated  in  and  out 
of  her  mind,  and  made  her  indignant.  Whatever 
one's  private  views  of  the  danger  may  be,  I  think 
no  one  likes  to  be  taken  care  of  in  this  fashion. 
Of  course,  Tom  Caruthers  was  and  could  be  noth 
ing  to  her,  Lois  said  to  herself;  and  of  course  she 
could  be  nothing  to  him;  but  that  his  friends 
should  fear  the  contrary  arid  take  measures  to  pre 
vent  it,  stirred  her  most  disagreeably.  Yes;  if 
things  had  gone  so,  then  Tom  certainly  was  weak; 
and  it  vexed  her  that  he  should  be  weak.  Very 
inconsistent,  when  it  would  have  occasioned  her 
so  much  trouble  if  he  had  been  strong!  but  when 
is  human  nature  consistent.  Altogether  this  visit 
to  Appledore,  the  pleasure  of  which  began  so  spi 
cily,  left  rather  a  flat  taste  upon  her  tongue ;  and 
she  was  vexed  at  that. 

There  was  another  person  who  probably  thought 
Tom  weak,  and  who  was  curious  to  know  how  he 
had  come  out  of  this  trial  of  strength  with  his 
relations;  but  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  wandered  off  to  a 
distance,  and  it  was  not  till  a  month  later  that  he 
saw  any  of  the  Caruthers.  By  that  time  they 
were  settled  in  their  town  quarters  for  the  winter, 
and  there  one  evening  he  called  upon  them.  He 
found  only  Julia  and  her  mother. 

"By  the  way!"  said  he,  when  the  talk  had 
rambled  on  for  a  while,  "  how  did  you  get  on 
at  the  Isles  of  Shoals  ?  " 

"We  had  an  awful  time,"  said  Julia.  "You 
cannot  cortceive  of  anything  so  slow." 


228  NOBODY. 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  ?  " 

"O  ages!  We  were  there  four  or  five  weeks. 
Imagine,  if  you  can.  Nothing  but  sea  and  rocks, 
and  no  company." 

"  No  company !     What  kept  you  there  ?  " 

•'0,  Tom!" 

"  What  kept  Tom  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Wishart  got  sick,  you  see,  and  couldn't 
get  away,  poor  soul!  and  that  made  her  stay  so 
long." 

"  And  you  had  to  stay  too,  to  nurse  her  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing  of  that.  Miss  Lothrop  was  there, 
and  she  did  the  nursing;  and  then  a  ridiculous 
aunt  of  hers  came  to  help  her." 

"You  staid  for  sympathy." 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Philip !  You  know  we  were 
kept  by  Tom.  We  could  not  get  him  away." 

"  What  made  Tom  want  to  stay  ?  " 

"0,  that  girl." 

"  How  did  you  get  him  away  at  last  ?  " 

"Just  because  we  stuck  to  him.  No  other  way. 
He  would  undoubtedly  have  made  a  fool  of  him 
self  with  that  girl — he  was  just  ready  to  do  it — 
but  we  never  left  him  a  chance.  George  and  I, 
and  mother,  we  surrounded  him,"  said  Julia  laugh 
ing;  "we  kept  close  by  him;  we  never  left  them 
alone.  Tom  got  enough  of  it  at  last,  and  agreed, 
very  melancholy,  to  come  away.  He  is  dreadfully 
in  the  blues  yet." 

"  You  have  a  good  deal  to  answer  for,  Julia." 

"  Now  don't,  Philip !     That's  what  George  says. 


TOM'S  DECISION.  229 

It  is  too  absurd.  Just  because  she  has  a  pret 
ty  face.  All  you  men  are  bewitched  by  pretty 
faces." 

"  She  has  a  good  manner,  too." 

"Manner?  She  has  no  manner  at  all;  and  she 
don't  know  anything,  out  of  her  garden.  We  have 
saved  Tom  from  a  great  danger.  It  would  be  a 
terrible  thing,  perfectly  terrible,  to  have  him  marry 
a  <;-irl  who  is  not  a  lady,  nor  even  an  educated 
woman." 

"  You  think  you  could  not  have  made  a  lady  of 
her?" 

"Mamma,  do  hear  Philip!  isn't  he  too  bad? 
Just  because  that  girl  has  a  little  beauty.  I  won 
der  what  there  is  in  beauty  !  it  turns  all  your  heads. 
Mamma,  do  you  hear  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  he  wishes  we 
had  let  Tom  have  his  head  and  marry  that  littlo 
gardening  girl." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,"  said  Philip  seriously.  "  I  am 
very  glad  you  succeeded  in  preventing  it  But  al 
low  me  to  ask  if  you  are  sure  you  have  succeeded  ? 
Is  it  quite  certain  Tom  will  not  have  his  head  after 
all  ?  He  may  cheat  you  yet." 

"  0  no !  He's  very  melancholy,  but  he  has  given 
it  up.  If  he  don't,  we'll  take  him  abroad  in  the 
spring.  I  think  he  has  given  it  up.  His  being 
melancholy  looks  like  it." 

"  True.     I'll  sound  him  when  I  get  a  chance." 

The  chance  offered  itself  very  soon;  for  Tom 
came  in,  and  when  Dillwyn  left  the  house,  Tom 
went  to  walk  with  him.  They  sauntered  along 


230  NOBODY. 

Fifth  Avenue,  which  was  pretty  full  of  people  still, 
enjoying  the  mild  air  and  beautiful  starlight. 

"Torn,  what  did  you  do  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals?" 
Mr.  Dillwyn  asked  suddenly. 

"  Did  a  lot  of  fishing.     Capital  trolling." 

"  All  your  fishing  done  on  the  high  seas,  eh  ?  " 

"  All  my  successful  fishing." 

"  What  was  the  matter?     Not  a  faint  heart? " 

"No.  It's  disgusting,  the  whole  thing!"  Tom 
broke  out  with  hearty  emphasis. 

"You  don't  like  to  talk  about  it?  I'll  spare  you, 
if  you  say  so." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  do  to  me,"  said  Tom ; 
*'and  I  have  no  objection  to  talk  about  it — to  you." 

Nevertheless  he  stopped. 

"  Have  you  changed  your  mind  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  change  my  mind,  if  I  lived  to  be  as 
old  as  Methusaleh  !  " 

"That's  right.  Well  then, — the  thing  is  going 
on  ?  " 

"It  isnt  going  on  !  and  I  suppose  it  never  will ! ' 

"Had  the  lady  any  objection?  I  cannot  believe 
that." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom  with  a  big  sigh.  "  I 
almost  think  she  hadn't;  but  I  never  could  find 
that  out." 

"What  hindered  you,  old  fellow?" 

"My  blessed  relations.  Julia  and  mother  made 
such  a  row.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  the  row  nei 
ther;  for  a  man  must  marry  to  please  himself  and 
not  his  mother;  and  I  believe  no  man  ever  yet 


TOM'S  DECISION.  231 

married  to  please  his  sister;  but,  Philip,  they  didn't 
give  me  a  minute.  I  could  never  join  her  anywhere, 
but  Julia  would  be  round  the  next  corner;  or  else 
George  would  be  there  before  me.  George  must 
put  his  oar  in;  and  between  them  they  kept  it  up." 

u  And  you  think  she  liked  you?  " 

Torn  was  silent  a  while. 

"  Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  won't  swear;  for  you 
never  know  where  a  woman  is  till  you've  got  her; 
but  if  she  didn't,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  signs  aren't 
good  for  anything." 

It  was  Philip  now  who  was  silent,  for  several 
minutes. 

"  What's  going  to  be  the  upshot  of  it? " 

"01  suppose  I  shall  go  abroad  with  Julia  and 
George  in  the  spring,  and  end  by  taking  an  ortho 
dox  wife  some  day;  somebody  with  blue  blood, 
and  pretension,  and  nothing  else.  My  people  will 
be  happy,  and  the  family  name  will  be  safe." 

"And  what  will  become  of  her?" 

"  0  she's  all  right.  She  won't  break  her  heart 
about  me.  She  isn't  that  sort  of  girl,"  Tom  Caru- 
thers  said  gloomily.  "Do  you  know,  I  admire  her 
immensely,  Philip!  I  believe  she's  good  enough 
for  anything.  Maybe  she's  too  good.  That's  what 
her  aunt  hinted." 

"  Her  aunt !     Who's  she  ?  " 

"  She's  a  sort  of  a  snapping  turtle.  A  good  sort 
of  woman,  too.  I  took  counsel  with  her,  do  you 
know,  when  I  found  it  was  no  use  for  me  to  try  to 
see  Lois.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  stand  nay 


232  NOBODY. 

friend.  She  was  as  sharp  as  a  fishhook,  and  about 
as  ugly  a  customer;  and  she  as  good  as  told  me  to 
go  about  my  business." 

"  Did  she  give  reasons  for  such  advice  ?  " 

"  0  yes !  She  saw  through  Julia  and  mother  as 
well  as  I  did ;  and  she  spoke  as  any  friend  of  Lois 
would,  who  had  a  little  pride  about  her.  I  can't 
blame  her." 

Silence  fell  again,  and  lasted  while  the  two  young 
men  walked  the  length  of  several  blocks.  Then 
Mr.  Dillwyn  began  again. 

"  Tom,  there  ought  to  be  no  more  shilly  shallying 
about  this  matter." 

"No  morel  Yes,  you're  right.  I  ought  to  have 
settled  it  long  ago,  before  Julia  and  mother  got 
hold  of  it.  That's  where  I  made  a  mistake." 

"  And  you  think  it  too  late  ?  " 

Tom  hesitated.  "It's  too  late.  I've  lost  my 
time.  She  has  given  me  up,  and  mother  and  Julia 
have  set  their  hearts  that  I  should  give  her  up.  I 
am  not  a  match  for  them.  Is  a  man  ever  a  match 
for  a  woman,  do  you  think,  Dillwyn,  if  she  takes 
something  seriously  in  hand  ?  " 

"  Will  you  go  to  Europe  next  spring  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.     I  suppose  so." 

"  If  you  do,  perhaps  I  will  join  the  party — that  is, 
if  you  will  all  let  me." 

So  the  conversation  went  over  into  another 
channel. 


CHAPTER   XVII  I. 
MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN. 

TWO  or  three  evenings  after  this,  Philip  Dillwyn 
was  taking  his  way  down  the  Avenue,  not  up 
it.  He  followed  it  down  to  nearly  its  lower  termi 
nation,  and  turned  up  into  Clinton  Place;  where  he 
presently  run  up  the  steps  of  a  respectable  but 
rather  dingy  house,  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for 
Mrs.  Barclay. 

The  room  where  he  awaited  her  was  one  of  those 
dismal  places,  a  public  parlour  in  a  boarding-house 
of  second  or  third  rank  Respectable,  but  forlorn. 
Nothing  was  ragged,  or  untidy,  but  nothing  either 
had  the  least  look  of  home  comfort  or  home  privacy. 
As  to  home  elegance,  or  luxury,  the  look  of  such  a 
room  is  enough  to  put  it  out  of  one's  head  that 
there  can  be  such  things  in  the  world.  The  ugly 
ingrain  carpet,  the  ungraceful  frame  of  the  small 
glass  in  the  pier,  the  abominable  portraits  on  the 
walls,  the  disagreeable  paper  with  which  they  were 
hung,  the  hideous  lamps  on  the  mantelpiece; — 
wherever  the  eye  looked  it  came  back  with  uneasy 
discomfort.  Philip's  eye  came  back  to  the  fire ;  and 

(233) 


234  NOBODY. 

that  was  not  pleasant  to  see;  for  the  fireplace  was 
not  properly  cared  for,  the  coals  were  lifeless,  and 
evidently  more  economical  than  useful.  Philip 
looked  very  out  of  place  in  these  surroundings. 
No  one  could  for  a  moment  have  supposed  him  to 
be  living  among  them.  His  thoroughly  well- 
dressed  figure,  the  look  of  easy  refinement  in  his 
face,  the  air  of  one  who  is  his  own  master,  so  in 
imitable  by  one  whose  circumstances  master  him; 
all  said  plainly  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  here  only 
on  account  of  some  one  else.  It  could  be  no 
home  of  his. 

As  little  did  it  seem  fitted  to  be  the  home  of  the 
lady  who  presently  entered.  A  tall,  elegant,  dig 
nified  woman;  in  the  simplest  of  dresses,  indeed, 
which  probably  bespoke  scantiness  of  means,  but 
which  could  not  at  all  disguise  or  injure  the  im 
pression  of  high  breeding  and  refinement  of  man 
ners  which  her  appearance  immediately  produced. 
She  was  a  little  older  than  her  visiter,  yet  not  much; 
a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life  she  would  have  been, 
had  not  life  gone  hard  with  her;  and  she  had  been 
very  handsome,  though  the  regular  features  were 
shadowed  with  sadness,  and  the  eyes  had  wept  too 
many  tears  not  to  have  suffered  loss  of  their  orig 
inal  brightness.  She  had  the  slow,  quiet  manner 
of  one  whose  life  is  played  out;  whom  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  world  have  both  swept  over,  like 
great  waves,  and  receding,  have  left  the  world  a 
barren  strand  for  her;  where  the  tide  is  never  to 
rise  again.  She  was  a  sad-eyed  woman,  who  had 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  235 

accepted  her  sadness,  and  could  be  quietly  cheerful 
on  the  surface  of  it.  Always,  at  least,  as  far  as  good 
breeding  demanded.  She  welcomed  Mr.  Dilhvyn 
with  a  smile  and  evident  genuine  pleasure. 

"How -do  I  find  you?"  he  said,  sitting  down. 

"Quite  well.  Where  have  you  been  all  summer? 
I  need  not  ask  how  you  are." 

"Useless  things  always  thrive,"  he  said.  "  I  havo 
been  Avandering  about  among  the  mountains  and 
lakes  in  the  northern  part  of  Maine." 

"  That  is  very  wild,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Therein  lies  its  charm." 

"There  are  not  roads  and  hotels?" 

"The  roads  the  lumberers  make.  And  I  saw  one 
hotel,  and  did  not  want  to  see  any  more." 

"  How  did  you  find  your  way  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  guide — an  Indian,  who  could  speak  a 
little  English." 

"  No  other  company  ?  " 

"  Kifle  and  fishing-rod." 

"  Good  work  for  them  there,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Capital.  Moose,  and  wild  fowl,  and  fish,  all  of 
best  quality.  I  wished  I  could  have  sent  you  some/' 

"Thank  you  for  thinking  of  me.  I  should  have 
liked  the  game,  too." 

"Are  you  comfortable  here?"  he  asked  lowering 
his  voice.  Just  then  the  door  opened;  a  man's  head 
was  put  in,  surveyed  the  two  people  in  the  room, 
and  after  a  second's  deliberation  disappeared  again. 

"You  have  not  this  room  to  yourself?  "  inquired 
Dilhvyn. 


236  NOBODY. 

"  0  no.     It  is  public  property." 

"  Then  we  may  be  interrupted  ?  " 

"  At  any  minute.  Do  you  want  to  talk  to  me, 
*  unter  vier  augen '  ?  " 

"  I  want  no  more,  certainly.  Yes,  I  came  to  talk 
to  you;  and  I  cannot,  if  people  keep  coming  in." 
A  woman's  head  had  now  shewn  itself  for  a  mo 
ment.  "  I  suppose  in  half  an  hour  there  will  be  a 
couple  of  old  gentlemen  here  playing  backgammon. 
I  see  a  board.  Have  you  not  a  corner  to  yourself?  " 

"  I  have  a  corner," — she  said  hesitating ;  "  but 
it  is  only  big  enough  to  hold  me.  However,  if  you 
will  promise  to  make  no  remarks  and  to  '  make  be 
lieve,'  as  the  children  say,  that  the  place  is  six  times 
as  large  as  it  is, — I  will,  for  once  take  you  to  it.  I 
would  take  no  one  else." 

"The  honour  will  not  outweigh  the  pleasure," 
Baid  Dillwyn  as  he  rose.  "But  why  must  I  put 
such  a  force  upon  my  imagination." 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  pity  me.  Do  you  mind 
going  up  two  flights  of  stairs  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  mind  going  to  the  top  of  St.  Peter's ! " 

"The  prospect  will  be  hardly  like  that." 

She  led  the  way  up  two  flights  of  stairs.  At  tho 
top  of  them,  in  the  third  story,  she  opened  the  door 
of  a  little  end  room,  cut  off  the  hall.  Dillwyn  waited 
outside  till  she  had  found  her  box  of  matches  and 
lit  a  lamp;  then  she  let  him  come  in  and  shut  the 
door.  It  was  a  little  bit  of  a  place  indeed,  about 
six  feet  by  twelve.  A  table,  covered  with  books 
and  papers,  hanging  shelves  with  more  books,  a 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  237 

work  basket,  a  trunk  converted  into  a  divan  by  a 
cushion  and  chintz  cover,  and  a  rocking  chair,  about 
filled  the  space.  Dillwyn  took  the  divan,  and  Mrs. 
Barclay  the  chair.  Dillwyn  looked  around  him." 

"  I  should  never  dream  of  pitying  the  person  who 
can  be  contented  here,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  The  mental  composition  must  be  so  admirable ! 
I  suppose  you  have  another  corner,  where  to  sleep  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  smiling;  "the  other  little  room 
like  this  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  I  preferred 
this  arrangement  to  having  one  larger  room  where 
I  must  sit  and  sleep  both.  Old  habits  are  hard  to 
get  rid  of.  Now  tell  me  more  about  the  forests 
of  Maine.  I  have  always  had  a  curiosity  about 
that  portion  of  the  country." 

He  did  gratify  her  for  a  while ;  told  of  his  travels, 
and  camping  out;  and  of  his  hunting  and  fishing; 
and  of  the  lovely  scenery  of  the  lakes  and  hills. 
He  had  been  to  the  summit  of  Mount  Kataydin, 
and  he  had  explored  the  waters  in  l  birches,'  and 
he  told  of  odd  specimens  of  humanity  he  had  found 
on  his  way ;  but  after  a  while  of  this  talk  Philip 
came  suddenly  back  to  his  starting  point. 

"  Mrs.  Barclay,  you  are  not  comfortable  here !  " 

"  As  well  as  I  can  expect,"  she  said  in  her  quiet, 
sad  manner.  The  sadness  was  not  obtrusive,  not 
on  the  surface;  it  was  only  the  background  to 
everything. 

"  But  it  is  not  comfort.  I  am  not  insulting  you 
with  pity,  mind;  but  I  am  thinking.  Would  you 


238  NOBODY. 

not  like  better  to  be  in  the  country?  in  some  pleas 
ant  place?  " 

"  You  do  not  call  this  a  pleasant  place  ?"  she  said 
with  her  faint  smile.  "Now  I  do.  When  I  get  up 
here,  and  shut  the  door,  I  am  my  own  mistress." 

"  Would  you  not  like  the  country?" 

"It  is  out  of  my  reach,  Philip.  I  must  do  some 
thing,  you  know,  to  keep  even  this  refuge." 

"  I  thiyk  you  said  you  would  not  be  averse  to 
doing  something  in  the  line  of  giving  instruction  ?" 

"  If  I  had  the  right  pupils.  But  there  is  no  chance 
of  that.  There  are  too  many  competitors.  The  city 
is  overstocked." 

"We  were  talking  of  the  country." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  still  less  possible  in  the  country. 
I  could  not  find  there  the  sort  of  teaching  I  could 
do.  All  requisitions  of  that  sort,  people  expect  to 
have  met  in  the  city;  and  they  come  to  the  city 
for  it," 

"I  do  not  speak  with  certainty,"  said  Philip, 
"  but  I  think  I  know  a  place  that  would  suit  you. 
Good  air,  pleasant  country,  comfortable  quarters, 
arid  moderate  charges.  And  if  you  went  there, 
there  is  work." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"On  the  Connecticut  shore — far  down  the  Sound. 
Not  too  far  from  New  York,  though;  perfectly 
accessible." 

"  Who  lives  there  ?  " 

"It  is  a  New  England  village,  and  you  know 
•what  those  are.  Broad  grassy  streets,  and  shad- 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  239 

owy  old  elms,  and  comfortable  houses;  and  the 
sea  not  far  off.  Quiet,  and  good  air,  and  people 
with  their  intelligence  alive.  There  is  even  a 
library." 

"And. among  these  comfortable  inhabitants,  who 
would  want  to  be  troubled  with  me?" 

"I  think  I  know.  I  think  I  know  just  the 
house,  where  your  coming  would  be  a  boon.  They 
are  not  very  well-to-do.  1  have  not  asked,  but  I 
am  inclined  to  believe  they  would  be  glad  to  have 
you." 

44  Who  are  they?" 

"  A  household  of  women.  The  father  and  mother 
are  dead;  the  grandmother  is  there  yet,  and  there 
are  three  daughters.  They  are  relations  of  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  indeed  a  connection  of  mine,  in 
the  city.  So  I  know  something  about  them." 

"Not  the  people  themselves?" 

"Yes,  I  know  the  people, — so  far  as  one  speci 
men  goes.  I  fancy  they  are  people  you  could  get 
along  with." 

Mrs.  Barclay  looked  a  little  scrutinizingly  at 
the  young  man.  His  face  revealed  nothing,  more 
than  a  friendly  solicitude.  But  he  caught  the  look, 
and  broke  out  suddenly  with  a  change  of  subject. 

44  How  do  you  women  get  along  without  cigars? 
What  is  your  substitute  ?  " 

"  What  does  the  cigar,  to  you,  represent  ?  " 

"  Soothing  and  comforting  of  the  nerves — aids 
to  thought  —  powerful  helps  to  good  humour — 
something  to  do — " 


240  NOBODY. 

"  There !  now  you  have  it.  Philip  you  are  talk 
ing  nonsense.  Your  nerves  are  as  steady  and 
sound  as  a  granite  mountain;  you  can  think  with 
out  help  of  any  extraneous  kind;  your  good  hu 
mour  is  quite  as  fair  as  most  people's;  but — you 
do  want  something  to  do !  I  cannot  bear  to  have 
you  waste  your  life  in  smoke,  be  it  never  so 
fragrant. " 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"Anything!  so  you  were  hard  at  work,  and 
doing  work." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do." 

uThat  cannot  be,"  said  she,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Propose  something." 

"You  have  no  need  to  work  for  yourself,"  she 
said;  "so  it  must  be  for  other  people.  Say  politics." 

"  If  ever  there  was  anything  carried  on  purely 
for  selfish  interests,  it  is  the  business  you  name." 

"The  more  need  for  some  men  to  go  into  it  not 
for  self,  but  for  the  country." 

"It's  a  Maelstrom;  one  would  be  sure  to  get 
drawn  in.  And  it  is  a  dirty  business.  You  know 
the  proverb  about  touching  pitch." 

"It  need  not  be  so,  Philip." 

"It  brings  one  into  disgusting  contact  and  as 
sociations.  My  cigar  is  better." 

"  It  does  nobody  any  good  except  the  tobacconist. 
And  Philip,  it  helps  this  habit  of  careless  letting 
everything  go,  which  you  have  got  into." 

"  I  take  care  of  myself,  and  of  my  money,"  he 
said. 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  241 

"  Men  ought  to  live  for  more  than  to  take  care 
of  themselves." 

"  I  was  just  trying  to  take  care  of  somebody  else, 
and  you  head  me  off!  You  should  encourage  a 
fellow  better.  One  must  make  a  beginning.  And 
I  ivould  like  to  be  of  use  to  somebody,  if  I  could." 

"Go  on,"  she  said  with  her  faint  smile  again. 
"  How  do  you  propose  that  I  shall  meet  the  in 
creased  expenditures  of  your  Connecticut  para 
dise." 

"You  would  like  it?"  he  said  eagerly. 

"I  cannot  tell!  But  if  the  people  are  as  pleas 
ant  as  the  place — it  would  be  a  paradise.  Still,  I 
cannot  afford  to  live  in  paradise,  I  am  afraid." 

"  You  have  only  heard  half  my  plan.  It  will 
cost  you  nothing.  You  have  heard  only  what  you 
are  to  get — not  what  you  are  to  give." 

" Let  me  hear.     What  am  I  to  give? " 

"  The  benefits  of  your  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  knowledge  of  literature,  and  knowledge  of 
languages,  to  two  persons  who  need  and  are  with 
out  them  all." 

"  '  Two  persons.'     What  sort  of  persons?  " 

"  Two  of  the  daughters  I  spoke  of." 

Mrs.  Barclay  was  silent  a  minute,  looking  at 
him. 

"Whose  plan  is  this?" 

"Your  humble  servant's.  As  I  said,  one  must 
make  a  beginning;  and  this  is  my  beginning  of  an 
attempt  to  do  good  in  the  world." 

"How  old  are  these  two  persons?" 


242  NOBODY. 

"  One  of  them,  about  eighteen,  I  judge.  The 
other,  a  year  or  two  older." 

"  And  they  wish  for  such  instruction  ?  " 

"  I  believe  they  would  welcome  it.  But  they 
know  nothing  about  the  plan — and  must  not  know," 
he  added  very  distinctly,  meeting  Mrs.  Barclay's 
eyes  with  praiseworthy  steadiness. 

"What  makes  you  think  they  would  be  willing 
to  pay  for  my  services,  then  ?  Or  indeed,  how 
could  they  do  it  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  to  do  it.  They  are  to  know  noth 
ing  whatever  about  it.  They  are  not  able  to  pay 
for  any  such  advantages.  Here  comes  in  the 
benevolence  of  my  plan.  You  are  to  do  it  for  me, 
and  I  am  to  pay  the  worth  of  the  work ;  which  I 
will  do  to  the  full.  It  will  much  more  than  meet 
the  cost  of  your  stay  in  the  house.  You  can  lay 
up  money,"  he  said  smiling. 

"  Phil,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  "  what  is  back  of  this 
very  odd  scheme?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  anything — beyond  the  good 
done  to  two  young  girls,  and  the  good  done  to 
you." 

"It  is  not  that,"  she  said.  "This  plan  never 
originated  in  your  regard  for  my  welfare  solely." 

"  No.     I  had  an  eye  to  theirs  also." 

"Only  to  theirs  and  mine,  Phil?"  she  asked, 
bending  a  keen  look  upon  him.  He  laughed,  and 
changed  his  position,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Philip,  Philip,  what  is  this?" 

"You  may  call  it  a  whim,  a  fancy,  a  notion.     I 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  243 

do  not  know  that  anything  will  ever  come  of  it.  I 
could  wish  there  might — but  that  is  a  very  cloudy 
and  misty  chateau  en  Espagne,  and  I  do  riot  much 
look  at  it.  The  present  thing  is  practical.  Will 
you  take  the  place,  and  do  what  you  can  for  these 
girls?" 

"  What  ever  put  this  thing  in  your  head?  " 
"  What  matter  ?  if  it  is  a  good  thing." 
"I  must  know  more  about  it.     Who  are  these 
people  ?  " 

"Connections  of  Mrs.  Wishart.  Perfectly  re 
spectable." 

"  What  are  they,  then?" 

"Country  people.  They  belong,  I  suppose,  to 
the  farming  population  of  a  New  England  village. 
That  is  very  good  material." 

"Certainly  —  for  some  things.  How  do  they 
live?  by  keeping  boarders?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!  They  live,  I  suppose, — 
I  don't  know  how  they  live;  and  I  do  not  care. 
They  live  as  farmers,  I  suppose.  But  they  are 
poor." 

"And  so,  without  education?" 
"  Which  I  am  asking  you  to  supply." 
"  Phil,  you  are  interested  in  one  of  these  girls  ?  " 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  interested  in  both  of 
them  ?  "  he  said  laughing.     And  he  rose  now  and 
stood  half  leaning  against  the  door  of  the  little 
room,  looking  down  at  Mrs.  Barclay;  arid  she  re 
viewed  him.     He  looked  exactly  like  what  he  was ; 
a  refined  and  cultivated  man  of  the  world,  with  a 


244  NOBODY. 

lively  intelligence  in  full  play,  and  every  instinct 
and  habit  of  a  gentleman.  Mrs.  Barclay  looked  at 
him  with  a  very  grave  face. 

"  Philip,  this  is  a  very  crazy  scheme !  "  she  said 
"after  a  minute  or  two  of  mutual-  consideration. 

"  I  cannot  prove  it  anything  else,"  he  said  lightly. 
"Time  must  do  that." 

"  I  do  not  think  Time  will  do  anything  of  the 
kind.  What  Time  does  ordinarily,  is  to  draw  the 
veil  off  the  follies  our  passions  and  fancies  have 
covered  up." 

"True;  and  there  is  another  work  Time  some 
times  does.  He  sometimes  draws  forth  a  treasure 
from  under  the  encumbering  rubbish  that  hid  it, 
and  lets  it  appear  for  the  gold  it  is." 

"  Philip,  you  have  never  lost  your  heart  to  one 
of  these  girls  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  real  and  grave  anxiety. 

"Not  exactly." 

"But  your  words  mean  that." 

"They  are  not  intended  to  convey  any  such 
meaning.  Why  should  they  ?  " 

"Because  if  they  do  not  mean  that,  your  plan  is 
utterly  wild  and  extravagant.  And  if  they  do — " 

"What  then?" 

"  Then,  it  would  be  far  more  wild  and  extrava 
gant.  And  deplorable." 

"  See  there  the  inconsistency  of  you  good  peo 
ple!"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn,  still  speaking  lightly.  "A 
little  while  ago  you  were  urging  me  to  make  my 
self  useful.  I  propose  a  way,  in  which  I  want  your 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  245 

co-operation,  calculated  to  be  highly  beneficial  in  a 
variety  of  ways, — and  I  hit  upon  hindrances 
directly." 

"  Philip,  it  isn't  that.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
your  marrying  a  woman  unworthy  of  you." 

"I  still  less!"  he  assured  her  with  mock  gravity. 

"  And  that  is  what  you  are  thinking  of.  A  wo 
man  without  education,  without  breeding,  without 
knowledge  of  the  world,  without  anything,  that 
could  make  her  a  fit  companion  for  you.  Philip, 
give  this  up  !  " 

"  Not  my  plan,"  said  he  cheerfully.  "  The  rest 
is  all  in  your  imagination.  What  you  have  to  do, 
if  you  will  grant  my  prayer,  is  to  make  this  little 
country  girl  the  exact  opposite  of  all  that.  You 
will  do  it,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Where  will  you  be  ?  " 

"  Not  near,  to  trouble  you.  Probably  in  Europe. 
I  think  of  going  with  the  Caruthers  in  the  spring." 

"  What  makes  you  think  this  girl  wants,  I  mean, 
desires,  education?" 

"If  she  does  not,  then  the  fat's  in  the  fire,  that's 
all." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  romantic,  before." 

"Roman tic  I-  Could  anything  be  more  practical? 
And  I  think  it  will  be  so  good  for  you,  in  that  sea 
air." 

"  I  would  rather  never  smell  the  sea  air,  if  this 
is  going  to  be  for  your  damage.  Does  the  girl 
know  you  are  an  admirer  of  hers  ?  " 

"  She  hardly  knows  I  am  in  the  world !     0  yes, 


246  NOBODY. 

she  has  seen  me,  and  I  have  talked  with  her;  by 
which  means  I  come  to  know  that  labour  spent  011 
her  will  not  be  spent  in  vain.  But  of  me  she  knows 
nothing." 

"After  talking  with  you!"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 
"  What  else  is  she  ?  Handsome  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  let  you  judge  of  that.  I 
could  never  marry  a  mere  pretty  face,  I  think. 
But  there  is  a  wonderful  charm  about  this  crea 
ture,  which  I  do  not  yet  understand.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  find  out  what  is  the  secret  of  it." 

"A  pretty  face  and  a  pink  cheek!"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay  with  half  a  groan.  "You  are  all  alike, 
you  men !  Now  we  women — Philip,  is  the  thing 
mutual  already?  Does  she  think  of  you  as  you 
think  of  her?" 

"  She  does  not  think  of  me  at  all,"  said  he  sitting 
down  again,  and  facing  Mrs.  Barclay  with  an 
earnest  face.  "  She  hardly  knows  me.  Her  atten 
tion  has  been  taken  up,  I  fancy,  with  another 
suitor." 

"Another  suitor!  You  are  not  going  to  be 
Quixote  enough  to  educate  a  wife  for  another 
man  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  he  half  laughing.  "  The  other  man 
is  out  of  the  way,  and  makes  no  more  pretension." 

"Rejected?  And  how  do  you  know  all  this  so 
accurately  ?  " 

"  Because  he  told  me.  Now  have  you  done  with 
objections?" 

"Philip,  this  is  a  very   blind   business!     You 


MR.  DILLWYN'S  PLAN.  247 

may  send  me  to  this  place,  and  I  may  do  my  best, 
and  you  may  spend  your  money, — and  at  the  end 
of  all,  she  may  marry  somebody  else;  or,  which  is 
quite  on  the  cards,  you  may  get  another  fancy." 

"  Well,'-'  said  he,  "  suppose  it.  No  harm  will  be 
done.  As  I  never  had  any  fancy  whatever  before, 
perhaps  your  second  alternative  is  hardly  likely. 
The  other  I  must  risk — and  you  must  watch 
against." 

Mrs.  Barclay  shook  her  head,  but  the  end  was, 
she  yielded. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

NEWS. 

AT 0V EMBER  had  come.  It  was  early  in  the  month 
IN  still ;  yet,  as  often  happens,  the  season  was  thor 
oughly  defined  already.  Later,  perhaps,  some  sweet 
relics  or  reminders  of  October  would  come  in,  or 
days  of  the  soberer  charm  which  October's  succes 
sor  often  brings;  but  just  now,  a  grey  sky  and  a 
brown  earth  and  a  wind  with  no  tenderness  in  it 
banished  all  thought  of  such  pleasant  times.  The 
day  was  dark  and  gloomy.  So  the  fire  which 
burned  bright  in  the  kitchen  of  Mrs.  Armadale's 
house  shewed  particularly  bright,  and  its  warm  re 
flections  were  exceedingly  welcome  both  to  the  eye 
and  to  the  mind.  It  was  a  wood  fire,  in  an  open 
chimney,  for  Mrs.  Armadale  would  sit  by  no  other; 
and  I  call  the  place  the  kitchen,  for  really  a  large 
portion  of  the  work  of  the  kitchen  was  done  there ; 
however,  there  was  a  stove  in  an  adjoining  room, 
which  accommodated  most  of  the  boilers  and  ket 
tles  in  use,  while  the  room  itself  was  used  for  all 
the.  "mussy"  work.  Nevertheless,  it  was  only  upon 

occasion  that  fire  was  kindled  in  that  outer  room, 
(248) 


NEWS.  249 

economy  in  fuel  forbidding  that  two  fires  should  be 
all  the  while  kept  going. 

In  the  sitting-room  kitchen  then,  this  November 
afternoon,  the  whole  family  were  assembled.  The 
place  was  as  nice  as  a  pin,  and  as  neat  as  if  no 
work  were  ever  done  there.  All  the  work  of  the 
day  indeed  was  over;  and  even  Miss  Charity  had 
come  to  sit  down  with  the  rest,  knitting  in  hand. 
They  had  all  changed  their  dress  and  put  off  their 
big  aprons,  and  looked  unexceptionably  nice  and 
proper;  only,  it  is  needless  to  say,  with  no  attempt 
at  a  fashionable  appearance.  Their  gowns  were 
calico;  collars  and  cuffs  of  plain  linen;  and  the 
white  aprons  they  all  wore  were  not  fine  nor  orna 
mented.  Only  the  old  lady,  who  did  no  housework 
any  longer,  was  dressed  in  a  stuff  gown,  and  wore 
an  apron  of  black  silk.  Charity,  as  I  said,  was 
knitting;  so  was  her  grandmother.  Madge  was 
making  more  linen  collars.  Lois  sat  by  her  grand 
mother's  chair,  for  the  minute  doing  nothing. 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do  for  a  bonnet,  Lois  ?  " 
Charity  broke  the  silence. 

"Or  I  either?"  put  in  Madge.  "Or  you  yourself, 
Charity?  We  are  all  in  the  same  box." 

"  I  wish  our  hats  were ! "  said  the  elder  sister. 

"I  have  not  thought  much  about  it,"  Lois  an 
swered.  "  I  suppose,  if  necessary,  I  shall  wear  my 
straw." 

"  Then  you'll  have  nothing  to  wear  in  the  sum 
mer  !  It's  robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul." 

"Well,"   said    Lois,    smiling,— "if   Paul's   turn 


250  NOBODY. 

comes  first.  I  cannot  look  so  long  ahead  as  next 
summer." 

"It'll  be  here  before  you  can  turn  round,"  said 
Charity,  whose  knitting  needles  flew  without  her 
having  any  occasion  to  watch  them.  "  And  then, 
straw  is  cold  in  winter." 

"  I  can  tie  a  comforter  over  my  ears." 

"That  would  look  poverty-stricken." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Madge  slowly,  "  that  is  what 
we  are.  It  looks  like  it,  just  now." 

"'The  Lord  maketh  poor  and  maketh  rich' — " 
Mrs.  Armadale  said. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Charity;  "but  our  cow  died 
because  she  was  tethered  carelessly." 

"  And  our  hay  failed  because  there  was  no  rain," 
Madge  added.  "And  our  apples  gave  out  because 
they  killed  themselves  with  bearing  last  year." 

"You  forget,  child — it  is  the  Lord  'that  giveth 
rain,  both  the  former  and  the  latter,  in  his  season.'" 

"But  he  didrit  give  it,  mother;  that's  what  I'm 
talking  about;  neither  the  former  nor  the  latter; 
though  what  that  means,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know; 
we  have  it  all  the  year  round,  most  years." 

"Then  be  contented,  if  a  year  comes  when  he 
does  riot  send  it." 

"  Grandmother,  it'll  do  for  you  to  talk ;  but  what 
are  we  girls  going  to  do  without  bonnets  ?  " 

"  Do  without — "  said  Lois  archly,  with  the  gleam 
of  her  eye  and  the  arch  of  her  pretty  brow  which 
Used  now  and  then  to  bewitch  poor  Tom  Caruthers. 

"We  have  hardly  apples  to  make  sauce  of — " 


NEWS.  251 

Charity  went  on.  "  If  it  had  been  a  good  year,  we 
could  have  got  our  bonnets  with  our  apples,  nicely. 
Now,  I  don't  see  where  they  are  to  come  from." 

"Don't  wish  for  what  the  Lord  don't  send,  child," 
said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  O  mother  !  that's  a  good  deal  to  ask,"  cried 
Charity.  "  It's  very  well  for  you,  sitting  in  your 
arm  chair  all  the  year  round ;  but  we  have  to  put 
our  heads  out;  and  for  one,  I'd  rather  have  some 
thing  on  them.  Lois,  haven't  you  got  anything  to 
do,  that  you  sit  there  with  your  hands  in  your 
lap?" 

44 1  am  going  to  the  post  office,"  said  Lois  rising; 
"  the  train's  in.  I  heard  the  whistle." 

The  village  street  lay  very  empty,  this  brown 
November  day;  and  so,  to  Lois's  fancy,  lay  the 
prospect  of  the  winter.  Even  so ;  brown  and  light- 
less,  with  a  chill  nip  in  the  air  that  dampened 
rather  than  encouraged  energy.  She  was  young 
and  cheery  tempered;  but  perhaps  there  was  a 
shimmer  yet  in  her  memory  of  the  colours  on 
the  Isles  of  Shoals;  at  any  rate  the  village  street 
seemed  dull  to  her  and  the  day  forbidding.  She 
walked  fast,  to  stir  her  spirits.  The  country  around 
Shampuashuh  is  flat;  never  a  hill  or  lofty  object 
of  any  kind  rose  upon  her  horizon  to  suggest  wider 
lookouts  and  higher  standing  points  than  her  pres 
ent  footing  gave  her.  The  best  she  could  see  was 
a  glimpse  of  the  distant  Connecticut,  a  little  light 
blue  thread  afar  off;  and  I  cannot  tell  why,  what 
she  thought  of  when  she  saw  it  was  Tom  Caruthers. 


252  NOBODY. 

I  suppose  Tom  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  any 
wider  horizon  than  Shampuashuh  street  afforded. 
Anyhow,  Mr.  Caruthers'  handsome  face  came  be 
fore  her;  and  a  little,  a  very  little,  breath  of  regret 
escaped  her,  because  it  was  a  face  she  would  see 
no  more.  Yet  why  should  she  wish  to  see  it,  she 
asked  herself.  Mr.  Caruthers  could  be  nothing  to 
her;  he  never  could  be  anything  to  her;  for  he  knew 
not  and  cared  not  to  know  either  the  joys  or  the 
obligations  of  religion,  in  which  Lois's  whole  life 
was  bound  up.  However,  though  he  could  be  noth 
ing  to  her,  Lois  had  a  woman's  instinctive  percep 
tion  that  she  herself  was,  or  had  been,  something 
to  him ;  and  that  is  an  experience  a  simple  girl  does 
not  easily  forget.  She  had  a  kindness  for  him, 
and  she  was  pretty  sure  he  had  more  than  a  kind 
ness  for  her,  or  would  have  had,  if  his  sister  had 
let  him  alone.  Lois  went  back  to  her  Appledore 
experiences,  revolving  and  studying  them,  and  un 
derstanding  them  a  little  better  now,  she  thought, 
than  at  the  time.  At  the  time  she  had  not  under 
stood  them  at  all.  It  was  just  as  well !  she  said  to 
herself.  She  could  never  have  married  him.  But 
why  did  his  friends  not  want  him  to  marry  her  ? 
She  was  in  the  depths  of  this  problem  when  she 
arrived  at  the  post  office. 

The  post  office  was  in  the  further  end  of  a  grocery 
store,  or  rather  a  store  of  varieties,  such  as  country 
villages  find  convenient.  From  behind  a  little  lat 
tice  the  grocer's  boy  handed  her  a  letter,  with  the 
remark  that  she  was  in  luck  to-day.  Lois  recog- 


NEWS.  253 

nized  Mrs.  Wishart's  hand,  and  half  questioned  tho 
assertion.  What  was  this  ?  a  new  invitation  ?  That 
cannot  be,  thought  Lois;  I  was  with  her  so  long 
last  winter,  and  now  this  summer  again  for  weeks 
and  weeks —  And  anyhow,  I  could  not  go  if  she 
asked  me.  I  could  not  even  get  a  bonnet  to  go 
in ;  and  I  could  not  afford  the  money  for  the  journey. 

She  hoped  it  was  not  an  invitation.  It  is  hard 
to  have  the  cup  set  to  your  lips,  if  you  are  not 
to  drink  it ;  any  cup ;  and  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Wish  art 
was  a  very  sweet  cup  to  Lois.  The  letter  filled  her 
thoughts  all  the  way  home ;  and  she  took  it  to  her 
own  room  at  once,  to  have  the  pleasure,  or  the  pain, 
mastered  before  she  told  of  it  to  the  rest  of  the 
family.  But  in  a  very  few  minutes  Lois  came 
flying  down  stairs,  with  light  in  her  eyes  and 
a  sudden  colour  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Girls,  I've  got  some  news  for  you ! "  she  burst 
in. 

Charity  dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap.  Madge, 
who  was  setting  the  table  for  tea,  stood  still  with 
a  plate  in  her  hand.  All  eyes  were  on  Lois. 

"  Don't  say  news  never  comes !  We've  got  it 
to-day." 

"What?    Who  is  the  letter  from?"  said  Charity. 

"The  letter  is  from  Mrs.  Wishart,  but  that  does 
not  tell  you  anything." 

"  O  if  it  is  from  Mrs.  Wishart,  I  suppose  the  news 
only  concerns  you,"  said  Madge,  setting  down  her 
plate. 

"Mistaken!"  cried  Lois.     "It  concerns  us  all. 


254  NOBODY. 

Madge,  don't  go  off.  It  is  such  a  big  piece  of  news 
that  I  do  not  know  how  to  begin  to  give  it  to  you; 
it  seems  as  if  every  side  of  it  was  too  big  to  take 
hold  of  for  a  handle.  Mother,  listen,  for  it  con 
cerns  you  specially." 

u  I  hear,  child."  And  Mrs.  Armadale-  looked  in 
terested  and  curious. 

"  It's  delightful  to  have  you  all  looking  like 
that,"  said  Lois,  "  and  to  know  it's  not  for  nothing. 
You'll  look  more  '  like  that '  when  I've  told  you — 
if  ever  I  can  begin." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  quite  excited,"  said  the  old 
lady. 

"  Yes,  grandmother,  a  little.  It's  so  seldom  that 
anything  happens,  here." 

"The  days  are  very  good,  when  nothing  hap 
pens.  I  think,"  said  the  old  lady  softly. 

"  And  now  something  has  really  happened — for 
once.  Prick  up  your  ears,  Charity!  Ah,  I  see 
they  are  pricked  up  already,"  Lois  went  on  merrily. 
"  Now  listen.  This  letter  is  from  Mrs.  Wishart — " 

"  She  wants  you  again  !  "  cried  Madge. 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.     She  asks — " 

"  Why  don't  you  read  the  letter  ?  " 

"  I  will ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  first.  She  says 
there  is  a  certain  friend  of  a  friend  of  hers — a  very 
nice  person,  a  widow  lady,  who  would  like  to  live 
in  the  country  if  she  could  find  a  good  place ;  and 
Mrs.  Wishart  wants  to  know,  if  we  would  like  to 
have  her  in  our  house." 

"  To  board !  "  cried  Madge. 


NEWS.  255 

Lois  nodded  and  watched  the  faces  around  her. 

"  We  never  did  that  before,"  said  Madge. 

"No..  The  question  is,  whether  we  will  do  it 
now." 

"Take. her  to  board!"  repeated  Charity.  "It 
would  be  a  great  bother.  What  room  would  you 
give  her  ?  " 

"Rooms.  She  wants  two.  One  for  a  sitting- 
room." 

"Two!  We  couldn't,  unless  we  gave  her  our 
best  parlour  and  had  none  for  ourselves.  That 
wouldn't  do." 

"  Unless  she  would  pay  for  it — "  Lois  suggested. 

"  How  much  would  she  pay  ?  Does  Mrs.  Wish- 
art  say  ?  " 

"Guess,  girls!  She  would  pay — twelve  dollars 
a  week." 

Charity  almost  jumped  from  her  chair.  Madge 
stood  leaning  with  her  hands  upon  the  table  and 
stared  at  her  sister.  Only  the  old  grandmother 
went  on  now  quietly  with  her  knitting.  The  words 
were  re-echoed  by  both  sisters. 

"Twelve  dollars  a  week !  Fifty  dollars  a  month !  " 
cried  Madge,  and  clapped  her  hands.  "  We  can 
have  bonnets,  all  round;  and  the  hay  and  the 
apples  won't  matter.  Fifty  dollars  a  month !  Why 
Lois !— " 

"  It   would  be  an  awful  bother  " — said  Charity. 

"  Mrs.  Wishart  says  not.  At  least  she  says  this 
lady — this  Mrs.  Barclay — is  a  delightful  person, 
and  we  shall  like  her  so  much  we  shall  not  mind 


256  NOBODY. 

the  trouble.  Besides,  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  so 
much  trouble.  And  we  do  not  use  our  parlour 
much.  I'll  read  you  the  letter  now." 

So  she  did;    and  then  followed  an  eager  talk. 

"  She  is  a  city  body,  of  course.  Do  you  suppose 
she  will  be  contented  with  our  ways  of  going  on  ?  " 
Charity  queried. 

"  What  ways  do  you  mean  ?  " 

«  Well— will  our  table  suit  her  ?  " 

"  We  can  make  it  suit  her,"  said  Madge.  "  Just 
think — with  fifty  dollars  a  month — " 

"  But  we're  not  going  to  keep  a  cook,"  Charity 
went  on.  "I  won't  do  that.  I  can  do  all  the  work 
of  the  house,  but  I  can't  do  half  of  it.  And  if  I  do 
the  cooking,  I  shall  do  it  just  as  I  have  always 
done  it.  I  can't  go  to  fussing.  It'll  be  country 
ways  she'll  be  treated  to ;  and  the  question  is,  how 
she'll  like  'em/' 

"  She  can  try,"  said  Lois. 

"And  then,  maybe  she'll  be  somebody  that'll 
take  airs." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lois  laughing;  "but  not  likely. 
What  if  she  did,  Charity?  That  would  be  her 
affair." 

"It  would  be  my  affair  to  bear  it,"  said  Charity 
grimly. 

"  Daughters,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale  gently,  "  sup 
pose  we  have  some  tea." 

This  suggestion  brought  all  to  their  bearings. 
Madge  set  the  table  briskly,  Charity  made  the  tea, 
Lois  cut  bread  and  made  toast;  and  presently  talk- 


NEWS.  257 

ing  and  eating  went  on  in  the  harmonious  com 
bination  which  is  so  agreeable. 

"If  she  comes,"  said  Lois,  " there  must  be  cur 
tains  to  the  parlour  windows.  I  can  make  some 
of  chintz,  that  will  look  pretty  and  not  cost  much. 
And  there  must  be  a  cover  for  the  table." 

"Why  must  there?  The  table  is  nice  mahog 
any,"  said  Charity. 

"It  looks  cold  and  bare  so.  All  tables  in  use 
have  covers,  at  Mrs.  Wishart's." 

"  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  that.  What's  the  good 
of  it?" 

"  Looks  pretty  and  comfortable." 

"That's  nothing  but  a  notion.  I  don't  believe 
in  notions.  You'll  tell  me  next  our  steel  forks 
won't  do." 

"Well,  I  do  tell  you  that.  Certainly  they 
will  not  do,  to  a  person  always  accustomed  to 
silver." 

"That's  nothing  but  uppishness,  Lois.  I  can't 
stand  that  sort  of  thing.  Steel's  just  as  good  as 
silver,  only  it  don't  cost  so  much;  that's  all." 

"  It  don't  taste  as  well." 

"You  don't  need  to  eat  your  fork." 

"No,  but  you  have  to  touch  your  lips  to  it." 

"  How  does  that  hurt  you,  I  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  It  hurts  my  taste,"  said  Lois;  "and  so  it  is  un 
comfortable.  If  Mrs.  Barclay  comes,  I  should  cer 
tainly  get  some  plated  forks.  Half  a  dozen  would 
not  cost  much." 

"  Mother,"  said  Charity,  "  speak  to  Lois !     She's 


258  NOBODY. 

getting  right  worldly,  I  think.  Set  her  right, 
mother!" 

"  It  is  something  I  don't  understand,"  said  the 
old  lady  gravely.  "  Steel  forks  were  good  enough 
for  anybody  in  the  land,  when  I  was  young.  I 
don't  see,  for  my  part,  why  they  aint  just  as  good 
now." 

Lois  wisely  left  this  question  unanswered. 

"  But  you  think  we  ought  to  let  this  lady  come, 
mother,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale,  "  I  think  it's  a 
providence ! " 

"And  it  won't  worry  you,  grandmother,  will  it?" 

"  I  hope  not.  If  she's  agreeable,  she  may  do  us 
good;  and  if  she's  disagreeable,  we  may  do  her 
good." 

"That's  grandma  all  over!"  exclaimed  Charity; 
"  but  if  she's  disagreeable,  I'll  tell  you  what,  girls, 
I'd  rather  scrub  floors.  'Taint  my  vocation  to  do 
ugly  folks  good." 

"  Charity,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale,  "  it  is  your  voca 
tion.  It  is  what  everybody  is  called  to  do." 

"  It's  what  you've  been  trying  to  do  to  me  all 
my  life,  aint  it?"  said  Charity  laughing.  "But 
you've  got  to  keep  on,  mother;  it  aint  done  yet. 
But  I  declare!  there  ought  to  be  somebody  in  a 
house  who  can  be  disagreeable  by  spells,  or  the 
rest  of  the  world'd  grow  rampant." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SHAMPUASHUH. 

IT  was  in  vain  to  try  to  talk  of  anything  else ;  the 
conversation  ran  on  that  one  subject  all  the 
evening.  Indeed  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be 
thought  of  and  to  be  done,  and  it  must  of  necessity 
be  talked  of  first. 

"  How  soon  does  she  want  to  come  ?  "  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale  asked,  meaning  of  course  the  new  inmate 
proposed  for  the  house. 

"Just  as  soon  as  we  are  ready  for  her;  didn't 
you  hear  what  I  read,  grandmother?  She  wants 
to  get  into  the  country  air." 

"  A  queer  time  to  come  into  the  country  !  "  said 
Charity.  "  I  thought  city  folks  kept  to  the  city 
in  winter.  But  it's  good  for  us." 

"  We  must  get  in  some  coal  for  the  parlour," 
remarked  Madge. 

"Yes;  and  who's  going  to  make  coal  fires  and 
clean  the  grate  and  fetch  boxes  of  coal?"  said 
Charity.  "  I  don't  mind  makin'  a  wood  fire,  and 
keepin'  it  up;  wood's  clean;  but  coals  I  do  hate." 

There  was  general  silence. 


260  NOBODY. 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Lois. 

"  I  guess  you  will !     You  look  like  it." 

"Somebody  must;  and  I  may  as  well  as  anybody." 

"You  could  get  Tim  Bodson  to  carry  coal  for 
you,"  remarked  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  So  we  could ;  that's  an  excellent  idea ;  and  I 
don't  mind  the  rest  at  all,"  said  Lois.  "  I  like  to 
kindle  fires.  But  maybe  she'll  want  soft  coal.  I 
think  it  is  likely.  Mrs.  Wishart  never  .will  burn 
hard  coal  where  she  sits.  And  soft  coal  is  easier 
to  manage." 

"It's  dirtier,  though,"  said  Charity.  "I  hope 
she  aint  going  to  be  a  fanciful  woman.  I  can't 
get  along  with  fancy  folks.  Then  she'll  be  in  a 
fidget  about  her  eating;  and  I  can't  stand  that. 
I'll  cook  for  her,  but  she  must  take  things  as  she 
finds  them.  I  can't  have  anything  to  do  with 
Tomfooleries." 

"  That  means,  custards  ? "  said  Lois  laughing. 
"  I  like  custards  myself.  I'll .  take  the  Tomfoolery 
part  of  the  business,  Charity." 

"  Will  you !  "  said  Charity.     "  What  else  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  what  else,  girls.  We  must  have 
some  new  tablecloths,  and  some  napkins." 

"  And  we  ought  to  have  our  bonnets  before  any 
body  comes,"  added  Madge. 

"And  I  must  make  some  covers  and  mats  for 
the  dressing  table  and  washstand  in  the  best  room," 
said  Lois. 

"Covers  and  mats!  What  for?  What  ails  the 
things  as  they  are  ?  They've  got  covers." 


SHAMPUASHUH.  261 

"  0  I  mean  white  covers.  They  make  the  room 
look  so  much  nicer." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Lois;  you  can't  do  everything 
that  rich  folks  do ;  and  it's  no  use  to  try.  And  you 
may  as  well  begin  as  you're  goin'  on.  Where  are 
you  going  to  get  money  for  coal  and  bonnets  and 
tablecloths  and  napkins  and  curtains,  before  we 
begin  to  have  the  board  paid  in  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  that.  Aunt  Marx  will 
lend  us  some.  It  won't  be  much,  the  whole  of 
it." 

"  I  hope  we  aren't  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke,"  said 
Charity. 

"  Mother,  do  you  think  it  will  worry  you  to  have 
her?"  Lois  asked  tenderly. 

"No,  child,"  said  the  old  lady;  "why  should  it 
worry  me?" 

So  the  thing  was  settled,  and  eager  prepara 
tions  immediately  set  on  foot.  Simple  preparations, 
which  did  not  take  much  time.  On  her  part  Mrs. 
Barclay  had  some  to  make,  but  hers  were  still 
more  quickly  despatched ;  so  that  before  November 
had  run  all  its  thirty  days,  she  had  all  ready  for 
the  move.  Mr.  Dillwyn  went  with  her  to  the  sta 
tion  and  put  her  into  the  car.  They  were  early, 
so  he  took  a  seat  beside  her  to  bear  her  company 
during  the  minutes  of  waiting. 

"  I  would  gladly  have  gone  with  you,  to  see  you 
safe  there,"  he  remarked;  "but  I  thought  it  not 
best,  for  several  reasons." 

"  I   should   think   so ! "   Mrs.    Barclay  returned 


262  NOBODY. 

drily.  "Philip,  I  consider  this  the  very  craziest 
scheme  I  ever  had  to  do  with  !  " 

"  Precisely  your  being  in  it,  redeems  it  from 
that  character." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  am  afraid  you  are  pre 
paring  trouble  for  yourself;  but  your  heart  cannot 
be  much  in  it  yet !  " 

44  Don't  swear  that,"  he  said. 

"Well  it  cannot,  surely.  Love  will  grow  on 
scant  fare,  I  acknowledge;  but  it  must  have  a 
little." 

"  It  has  had  a  little.  But  you  are  hardly  to  give 
it  that  name  yet.  Say,  a  fancy." 

"  Sensible  men  do  not  do  such  things  for  a 
fancy.  Why,  Philip,  suppose  I  am  able  to  do  my 
part,  and  that  it  succeeds  to  the  full;  though  how 
I  am  even  to  set  about  it  I  have  at  present  no  idea ; 
I  cannot  assume  that  these  young  women  are  ig 
norant,  and  say  I  have  come  to  give  them  an 
education  !  But  suppose  I  find  a  way,  and  suppose 
I  succeed;  what  then?  You  will  be  no  nearer 
your  aim — perhaps  not  so  near." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"  Phil,  it's  a  very  crazy  business !  I  wouldn't 
go  into  it,  only  I  am  so  selfish,  and  the  plan  is  so 
magnificent  for  me." 

"  That  is  enough  to  recommend  it.  Now  I  want 
you  to  let  me  know,  from  time  to  time,  what  I 
can  send  you  that  will  either  tend  to  your  com 
fort,  or  h-elp  the  work  we  have  in  view.  Will 
you?" 


SHAMPUASHUH.  263 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  be?  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  Europe  ?  " 

"Not  till  spring.  I  shall  be  in  New  York  this 
winter." 

"But  you  will  not  come  to — what  is  the  name 
of  the  place — where  I  am  going  ? "  she  asked 
earnestly. 

"No,"  said  he  smiling.  "Shall  I  send  you  a 
piano?" 

"  A  piano !  Is  music  intended  to  be  in  the  pro 
gramme  ?  What  should  I  do  with  a  piano  ?  " 

"  That  you  would  find  out.  But  you  are  so  fond 
of  music — it  would  be  a  comfort,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  it  would  be  a  help." 

Mrs.  Barclay  looked  at  him  with  a  steady  gravity, 
under  which  lurked  a  little  sparkle  of  amusement. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  to  teach  your  Dulcinea 
to  play  ?  Or  to  sing  ?  " 

"  The  use  of  the  possessive  pronoun  is  entirely 
inappropriate." 

"  Which  is  she,  by  the  way  ?  There  are  three, 
are  there  not.  How  am  I  to  know  the  person  in 
whom  1  am  to  be  interested  ?  " 

"  By  the  interest." 

"  That  will  do ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay  laughing. 
"  But  it  is  a  very  mad  scheme,  Philip !  a  very  mad 
scheme.  Here  you  have  got  me — who  ought  to 
be  wiser — into  a  plan  for  making,  not  history,  but 
romance.  I  do  not  approve  of  romance,  and  not 
at  all  of  making  it." 

"Thank  you!"  said  he,  as  he  rose  in  obedience 


264  NOBODY. 

to  the  warning  stroke  of  the  bell.  "  Do  not  be 
romantic,  but  as  practical  as  possible.  I  am.  Good 
bye !  Write  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  train  moved  out  of  the  station,  and  Mrs. 
Barclay  fell  to  meditating.  The  prospect  before 
her,  she  thought,  was  extremely  misty  and  doubt 
ful.  She  liked  neither  the  object  of  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
plan,  nor  the  means  he  had  chosen  to  attain  it; 
and  yet,  here  she  was,  going  to  be  his  active 
agent,  obedient  to  his  will  in  the  matter.  Partly 
because  she  liked  Philip,  who  had  been  a  dear  and 
faithful  friend  of  her  husband;  partly  because,  as 
she  said,  the  scheme  offered  such  tempting  advan 
tage  to  herself;  but  more  than  either,  because  she 
knew  that  if  Philip  could  not  get  her  help  he  was 
more  than  likely  to  find  some  other  which  would 
not  serve  him  so  well.'  If  Mrs.  Barclay  had  thought 
that  her  refusal  to  help  him  would  have  put  an  end 
to  the  thing,  she  would  undoubtedly  have  refused. 
Now  she  pondered  what  she  had  undertaken  to  do, 
and  wondered  what  the  end  would  be.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  had  been  taken  by  a  pretty  face;  that  was 
the  old  story;  he  retained  wit  enough  to  feel  that 
something  more  than  a  pretty  face  was  necessary, 
therefore  he  had  applied  to  her;  but  suppose  her 
mission  failed  ?  Brains  cannot  be  bought.  Or  sup 
pose  even  the  brains  were  there,  and  her  mission 
succeeded?  What  then?  How  was  the  wooing 
to  be  done  ?  However,  one  thing  was  certain ;  Mr. 
Dillwyn  must  wait.  Education  is  a  thing  that  de 
mands  time.  While  he  was  waiting,  he  might 


SHAMPUASHUH.  265 

wear  out  his  fancy,  or  get  up  a  fancy  for  some 
one  else.  Time  was  everything. 

So  at  last  she  quieted  herself,  and  fell  to  a  restful 
enjoyment  of  her  journey,  and  amused  watching  of 
her  fellow-travellers,  and  observing  of  the  country. 
The  country  offered  nothing  very  remarkable.  Af 
ter  the  Sound  was  lost  sight  of,  the  road  ran  on 
among  farms  and  fields  and  villages;  now  and  then 
crossing  a  stream;  with  nothing  specially  pictur 
esque  in  land  or  water.  Mrs.  Barclay  went  back 
to  thoughts  that  led  her  far  away,  and  forgot  both 
the  fact  of  her  travelling  and  the  reason  why.  Till 
the  civil  conductor  said  at  her  elbow — "  Here's  your 
place,  ma'am — Shampuashuh." 

Mrs.  Barclay  was  almost  sorry,  but  she  rose,  and 
the  conductor  took  her  bag,  and  they  went  out. 
The  afternoons  were  short  now,  and  the  sun  was 
already  down;  but  Mrs.  Barclay  could  see  a  neat 
station  house,  with  a  long  platform  extending  along 
the  track,  and  a  wide,  level,  green  country.  The 
train  puffed  off  again.  A  few  people  were  taking 
their  way  homewards,  on  foot  and  in  wagons;  she 
saw  no  cab  or  omnibus  in  waiting  for  the  benefit 
of  strangers.  Then,  while  she  was  thinking  to 
find  some  railway  official  and  ask  instructions,  a 
person  came  towards  her;  a  woman,  bundled  up  in 
a  shawl  and  carrying  a  horsewhip. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  Mrs.  Barclay  ?  "  she  said  un 
ceremoniously.  "  I  have  come  after  you." 

"  Thank  you.  And  who  is  it  that  has  come  after 
me?" 


266  NOBODY. 

"You  are  going  to  the  Lothrops'  house,  aint 
you?  I  thought  so.  It's  all  right.  I'm  their  aunt. 
You  see,  they  haven't  a  team;  and  I  told  'em  I'd 
come  and  fetch  you,  for  as  like  as  not  Tompkins 
wouldn't  be  here.  Is  that  your  trunk  ? — Mr.  Lifton, 
won't  you  have  the  goodness  to  get  this  into  my 
buggy  ?  ifc's  round  at  the  other  side.  Now,  will  you 
come? — " 

This  last  to  Mrs.  Barclay.  And  following  her 
new  friend,  she  and  her  baggage  were  presently 
disposed  of  in  a  neat  little  vehicle,  and  the  owner 
of  it  got  into  her  place  and  drove  off. 

The  soft  light' she  wed  one  of  those  peaceful-look 
ing  landscapes  which  impress  one  immediately  with 
this  feature  in  their  character.  A  wide  grassy  street, 
or  road,  in  which  carriages  might  take  their  choice 
of  tracks;  a  level  open  country  wherever  the  eye 
caught  a  sight  of  it;  great  shadowy  elms  at  inter 
vals,  giving  an  air  of  dignity  and  elegance  to  the 
place;  and  neat  and  well-to-do  houses  scattered 
along  on  both  sides,  not  too  near  each  other  for 
privacy  and  independence.  Cool  fresh  air,  with  a 
savour  in  it  of  salt  water;  and  stillness;  stillness 
that  told  of  evening  rest,  and  quiet,  and  leisure. 
One  got  a  respect  for  the  place  involuntarily. 

"They're  lookin'  for  you, — "  the  driving  lady 
began. 

"Yes.     I  wrote  I  would  be  here  to-day." 

"They'll  do  all  they  can  to  make  you  comforta 
ble;  and  if  there's  anything  you'd  like,  you've  only 
to  tell  'em.  That  is,  anything  that  can  be  had  at 


SHAMPUASHUH.  267 

Shampuashuh ;  for  you  see,  we  aint  at  New  York ; 
and  the  girls  never  took  in  a  lodger  before.  But 
they'll  do  what  they  can." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  very  exacting." 

"  Most  folks  like  Shampuashuh  that  come  to 
know  it.  That  is! — we  don't  have  much  of  the 
high  flyin'  public;  that  sort  goes  over  to  Castle- 
town,  and  I'm  quite  willin'  they  should;  but  in 
summer  we  have  quite  a  sprinklin'  of  people  that 
want  country  and  the  sea;  and  they  most  of  'em 
stay  right  along,  from  the  beginning  of  the  season 
to  the  end  of  it.  We  don't  often  have  'em  come  in 
November,  though." 

"  T  suppose  not." 

"Though  the  winters  here  are  pleasant,"  the 
other  went  on.  "/  think  they're  first  rate.  You 
see,  we're  so  near  the  sea,  we  never  have  it  very 
cold;  and  the  snow  don't  get  a  chance  to  lie.  The 
worst  we  have  here  is  in  March ;  and  if  anybody  is 
particular  about  his  head  and  his  eyes,  I'd  advise 
him  to  take  'em  somewheres  else ;  but  dear  me ! 
there's  somethin'  to  be  said  about  every  place.  I 
do  hear  folks  say,  down  in  Florida  is  a  regular 
garden  of  Eden ;  but  I  don'  know !  seems  to  me  I 
wouldn't  want  to  live  on  oranges  all  the  year 
round,  and  never  see  the  snow.  I'd  rather  have  a 
good  pippin  now  than  ne'er  an  orange.  Here  we 
are.  Mr.  Starks ! " — addressing  a  man  who  was 
going  along  the  side  way — "hold  on,  will  you? 
here's  a  box  to  lift  down — won't  you  bear  a 
hand?" 


268  NOBODY. 

This  service  was  very  willingly  rendered,  the 
man  not  only  lifting  the  heavy  trunk  out  of  the 
vehicle,  but  carrying  it  in  and  up  the  stairs  to  its 
destination.  The  door  of  the  house  stood  open. 
Mrs.  Barclay  descended  from  the  buggy,  Mrs. 
Marx  kept  her  seat. 

"Good  bye,"  she  said.  "Go  right  in — you'll  find 
somebody,  and  they'll  take  care  of  you." 

Mrs.  Barclay  went  in  at  the  little  gate,  and  up 
the  path  of  a  few  yards  to  the  house.  It  was  a 
very  seemly  white  house,  quite  large,  with  a  porch 
over  the  door  and  a  balcony  above  it.  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  went  in,  feeling  herself  on  very  doubtful 
ground;  then  appeared  a  figure  in  the  doorway 
which  put  her  meditations  to  flight.  Such  a  fair 
figure,  with  a  grave,  sweet,  innocent  charm,  and 
a  manner  which  surprised  the  lady.  Mrs.  Barclay 
looked,  in  a  sort  of  fascination. 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  see  you,"  Lois  said  simply. 
"  It  is  Mrs.  Barclay,  1  suppose.  The  train  was  in 
good  time.  Let  me  take  your  bag — and  I  will 
shew  you  right  up  to  your  room." 

"  Thank  you.  Yes,  I  am  Mrs.  Barclay ;  but  who 
are  you?" 

"I  am  Lois.  Mrs.  Wishart  wrote  to  me  about 
you.  Now,  here  is  your  room;  and  here  is  your 
trunk.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Starks. — What  can  I  do 
for  you?  Tea  will  be  ready  presently." 

"You  seem  to  have  obliging  neighbours !  Ought 
I  not  to  pay  him  for  his  trouble?"  said  Mrs.  Barclay 
looking  after  the  retreating  Starks. 


SHAMPUASHUH.  269 

"  Pay  ?  0  no !  "  said  Lois  smiling.  "  Mr  Starks 
does  not  want  pay.  He  is  very  well  off  indeed; 
has  a  farm  of  his  own  and  makes  it  valuable." 

"He  deserves  to  be  well  off,  for  his  obligingness. 
Is  it  a  general  characteristic  of  Shampuashuh  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  it  is,"  said  Lois.  "  When  you 
come  down,  Mrs.  Barclay,  I  will  shew  you  your 
other  room." 

Mrs.  Barclay  took  off  her  wrappings  and  looked 
about  her  in  a  maze.  The  room  was  extremely 
neat  and  pleasant,  with  its  white  naperies  and  old- 
fashioned  furniture.  All  that  she  had  seen  of  the 
place  was  pleasant.  But  the  girl! — Oh  Philip, 
Philip !  thought  Mrs.  Barclay,  have  you  lost  your 
heart  here !  and  what  ever  will  come  of  it  all  ?  I 
can  understand  it;  but  what  will  come  of  it! 

Down  stairs  Lois  met  her  again  and  took  her 
into  the  room  arranged  for  her  sitting-room.  It 
was  not  a  New  York  drawing  room;  but  many 
gorgeous  drawing  rooms  would  fail  before  a  com 
parison  with  it.  Warm-coloured  chintz  curtains; 
the  carpet  neither  fine  nor  handsome  indeed,  but 
of  a  hue  which  did  not  clash  violently  with  the 
hue  of  the  draperies ;  plain,  dark  furniture ;  and  a 
blaze  of  soft  coal.  Mrs.  Barclay  exclaimed, 

"  Delightful !  0  delightful !  Is  this  my  room, 
did  you  say?  It  is  quite  charming.  I  am  afraid  I 
am  putting  you  to  great  inconvenience  ?  " 

"The  convenience  is  much  greater  than  the  in 
convenience,"  said  Lois  simply.  "  I  hope  we  may 
be  able  to  make  you  comfortable;  but  my  sisters 


270  NOBODY. 

are  afraid  you  will  not  like  our  country  way  of 
living." 

"  Are  you  the  housekeeper  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Lois,  with  her  pleasant  smile  again; 
"I  am  the  gardener  and  the  out-of-doors  woman 
generally;  the  man  of  business  of  the  house." 

"That  is  a  rather  hard  place  for  a  woman  to  fill 
sometimes." 

"  It  is  easy  here,  and  where  people  have  so  little 
out-of-door  business  as  we  have." 

She  arranged  the  fire  and  shut  the  shutters  of 
the  windows;  Mrs.  Barclay  watching  and  admir 
ing  her  as  she  did  so.  It  was  a  pretty  figure, 
though  in  a  calico  and  white  apron.  The  manner 
of  quiet  self-possession  and  simplicity  left  nothing 
to  be  desired.  And  the  face, — but  what  was  it  in 
the  face,  which  so  struck  Mrs.  Barclay?  It  was 
not  the  fair  features;  they  ivere  fair,  but  she  had 
seen  others  as  fair,  a  thousand  times  before.  This 
charm  was  something  she  had  nerer  seen  before  in 
all  her  life.  There  was  a  gravity,  that  had  no  con 
nection  with  shadows,  nor  even  suggested  them; 
a  curious  loftiness  of  mien,  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  external  position  or  internal  consciousness ; 
and  a  purity,  which  was  like  the  grave  purity  of  a 
child,  without  the  child's  want  of  knowledge  or 
immaturity  of  mental  power.  Mrs.  Barclay  was 
attracted,  and  curious.  At  the  same  time,  the 
dress  and  the  apron  were  of  a  style — well,  of  no 
style ;  the  plainest  attire  of  a  plain  country  girl. 

"  I  will  call  you  when  tea  is  ready,"  said  Lois. 


SHAMPUASHUII.  271 

"Or  would  you  like  to  come  out  at  once,  and  see 
the  rest  of  the  family  ?  " 

"  By  all  means !  let  me  go  with  you,"  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  answered ;  and  Lois  opened  a  door  and  ushered 
her  at  once  into  the  common  room  of  the  family. 
Here  Mrs.  Armadale  was  sitting  in  her  rocking 
chair. 

"  This  is  my  grandmother,"  said  Lois  simply;  and 
Mrs.  Barclay  came  up. 

"How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  I  am  pleased  to  see  you." 

Mrs.  Barclay  took  a  chair  by  her  side,  made  her 
greetings,  and  surveyed  the  room.  It  was  very 
cheerful  and  home-looking,  with  its  fire  shine,  and 
the  table  comfortably  spread  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  various  little  tokens  of  domestic  occu 
pation. 

"  How  pleasant  this  fire  is ! "  she  remarked. 
"  Wood  is  so  sweet !  " 

"It's  better  than  the  fire  in  the  parlour,"  said 
Mrs.  Armadale;  "but  that  room  has  only  a  grate." 

"I  will  never  complain,  as  long  as  I  have  soft 
coal,"  returned  the  new  guest;  "but  there  is  an 
uncommon  charm  to  me  in  a  wood  fire." 

"  You  don't  get  it  often  in  New  York,  Lois  says." 

"  Miss  Lois  has  been  to  the  great  city  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she's  been  there.  Our  cousin,  Mrs.  Wish- 
art,  likes  to  have  her,  and  Lois  was  there  quite  a 
spell  last  winter;  but  I  expect  that's  the  end  of  it. 
I  guess  she'll  stay  at  home  the  rest  of  her  life." 

"Why  should  she?" 


272  NOBODY. 

"  Here's  where  her  work  is,"  said  the  old  lady ; 
"and  one  is  best  where  one's  work  is." 

"But  her  work  might  be  elsewhere?  She'll 
marry  some  day.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  think  I 
should  fall  in  love  with  her." 

"  She  mightn't  marry  you,  still," — said  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale,  with  a  fine  smile. 

"No,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  returning  the 
smile;  "but — you  know,  girls'  hearts  are  not  to  be 
depended  on.  They  do  run  away  with  them,  when 
the  right  person  comes." 

"  My  Lois  will  wait  till  he  comes," — said  the  old 
lady,  with  a  sort  of  tender  confidence  that  was 
impressive  and  almost  solemn.  Mrs.  Barclay's 
thoughts  made  a  few  quick  gyrations;  and  then 
the  door  opened  and  Lois,  who  had  left  the  room, 
came  in  again  followed  by  one  of  her  sisters  bear 
ing  a  plate  of  butter. 

"  Another  beauty ! "  thought  Mrs.  Barclay  as 
Madge  was  presented  to  her.  "  Which  is  which, 
I  wonder  ?  "  This  was  a  beauty  of  quite  another  sort. 
Kegular  features,  black  hair,  eyes  dark  and  soft  un 
der  long  lashes,  a  white  brow  and  a  very  handsome 
mouth.  But  Madge  had  a  bow  of  ribband  in  her 
black  hair,  while  Lois's  red  brown  masses  were  soft 
and  fluffy  and  unadorned.  Madge's  face  lacked 
the  loftiness,  if  it  had  the  quietness,  of  the  other; 
and  it  had  not  that  innocent  dignity  which  seemed 
— to  Mrs.  Barclay's  fancy — to  set  Lois  apart  from 
the  rest  of  young  women.  Yet  most  men  would 
admire  Madge  most,  she  thought.  0  Philip,  Philip ! 


SHAMPUASHUH.  273 

she  said  to  herself,  what  sort  of  a  mess  have  you 
brought  me  into !  This  is  no  common  romance 
you  have  induced  me  to  put  my  fingers  in.  These 
girls ! — 

But  then  entered  a  third,  of  a  different  type, 
and  Mrs.  Barclay  felt  some  amusement  at  the 
variety  surrounding  her.  Miss  Charity  was  plain, 
like  her  grandmother;  and  Mrs.  Armadale  was 
not,  as  I  have  said,  a  handsome  old  woman.  She 
had  never  been  a  handsome  young  one;  bony, 
angular,  strong,  not  gracious;  although  the  expres 
sion  of  calm  sense,  and  character,  and  the  hand 
writing  of  life  work,  and  the  dignity  of  mental 
calm,  were  unmistakeable  now,  and  made  her  a  per 
son  worth  looking  at.  Charity  was  much  younger, 
of  course ;  but  she  had  the  plainness  without  the 
dignity ;  sense,  I  am  bound  to  say,  was  not  wanting. 

The  supper  was  ready,  and  they  all  sat  down. 
The  meal  was  excellent ;  but  at  first  very  silently 
enjoyed.  Save  the  words  of  anxious  hospitality, 
there  were  none  spoken.  The  quicker  I  get  ac 
quainted,  the  better,  thought  Mrs.  Barclay.  So 
she  began. 

"  Your  village  looks  to  me  like  a  quiet  place." 

"  That  is  its  character,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  Especially  in  winter,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  it  allays  was  quiet,  since  .I've  known  it," 
the  old  lady  went  on.  "  They've  got  a  hotel  now 
for  strangers,  down  at  the  Point — but  that  aint 
the  village." 

"  And  the  hotel  is  empty  now,"  added  Lois. 


274  NOBODY. 

"What  does  the  village  do,  to  amuse  itself,  in 
these  quiet  winter  days  and  nights  ?  " 

"  Nothing—"  said  Charity. 

"  Really  ?  Are  there  no  amusements  ?  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  place." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  amusements," 
Mrs.  Armadale  took  up  the  subject.  "  I  think,  doin' 
one's  work  is  the  best  amusement  there  is.  I  never 
wanted  no  other." 

"Does  the  old  proverb  not  hold  good  then  in 
Shampuashuh,  of  *  All  work  and  no  play ' — you 
know  ?  The  consequences  are  said  to  be  dis 
astrous." 

"No,"  said  Lois  laughing,  "it  does  not  hold 
good.  People  are  not  dull  here.  0  I  don't  mean 
that  they  are  very  lively;  but  they  are  not  dull." 

"  Is  there  a  library  here  ?  " 

"A  sort  of  one;  not  large.  Books  that  some  of 
the  people  subscribe  for,  and  pass  round  to  each 
others'  houses." 

"  Then  it  is  not  much  of  a  reading  community  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is,  considerable,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 
"There's  a  good  many  books  in  the  village,  take 
'em  all  together.  I  guess  the  folks  have  as  much 
as  they  can  do  to  read  what  they've  got,  and  don't 
stand  in  need  of  no  more." 

"  Well,  are  people  any  happier  for  living  in  such 
a  quiet  way?  Are  they  sheltered  in  any  degree 
from  the  storms  that  come  upon  the  rest  of  the 
world?  How  is  it?  As  I  drove  along  from  the 
station  to-night,  I  thought  it  looked  like  a  ha- 


SHAMPUASHUH.  275 

ven  of  peace,  where  people  could  not  have  heart 
breaks." 

"I  hope  the  Lord  will  make  it  such  to  you,  ma'am," 
the  old  lady  said  solemnly. 

The  turn  was  so  sudden  and  so  earnest,  that  it 
in  a  sort  took  Mrs.  Barclay's  breath  away.  She 
merely  said  "  Thank  you ! "  and  let  the  talk  drop. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS. 

MRS.  BARCLAY  found  her  room  pleasant,  her 
bed  excellent,  and  all  the  arrangements  and 
appointments  simple  indeed  but  quite  sufficient. 
The  next  morning  brought  brilliant  sunlight,  glit 
tering  in  the  elm  trees,  and  on  the  greensward 
which  filled  large  spaces  in  the  street,  and  on 
chimneys  and  housetops,  and  on  the  bit  of  the 
Connecticut  river  which  was  visible  in  the  dis 
tance.  Quiet  it  wa«  certainly,  and  peaceful,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  sight  was  inspiriting.  Mrs. 
Barclay  dressed  and  went  down ;  and  there  she  found 
her  parlour  in  order,  the  sunlight  streaming  in,  and 
a  beautiful  fire  blazing  to  welcome  her. 

"  This  is  luxury ! "  thought  she,  as  she  took  her 
place  in  a  comfortable  rocking-chair  before  the  fire. 
"  But  how  am  I  to  get  at  my  work !  " — Presently 
Lois  came  in,  looking  like  a  young  rose. 

"  I  beg  pardon  !  "  she  said,  greeting  Mrs.  Barclay, 
"  but  I  left  my  duster—" 

Has  she  been  putting  my  room  in  order !  thought 

the  lady. — This  elegant  creature  ?    But  she  shewed 

(276 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  277 

nothing  of  her  feeling;  only  asked  Lois  if  she  were 
busy? 

"No,"  said  Lois  with  a  smile;  "I  have  donev  Do 
you  want  something  of  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  -in  that  case.  Sit  down,  and  let  us  get 
acquainted." 

Lois  sat  down,  duster  in  hand,  and  looked  pleas 
antly  ready. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  giving  you  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  !  If  you  get  tired  of  me,  you  must  just  let 
me  know.  Will  you  ?  " 

"There  is  no  fear,"  Lois  assured  her.  "We  are 
very  glad  to  have  you.  If  only  you  do  not  get 
tired  of  our  quiet.  It  is  very  quiet,  after  what  you 
have  been  accustomed  to." 

"Just  what  I  want!  I  have  been  longing  for 
the  country;  and  the  air  here  is  delicious.  I  can 
not  get  enough  of  it.  I  keep  sniffing  up  the  salt 
smell.  And  you  have  made  me  so  comfortable ! 
How  lovely  those  old  elms  are  over  the  way.  I 
could  hardly  get  dressed,  for  looking  at  them.  Do 
you  draw  ?  " 

"  I  ?  0  no ! "  cried  Lois.  "  I  have  been  to  school, 
of  course,  but  I  have  learned  only  common  things. 
I  do  not  know  anything  about  drawing." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  bet  me  teach  you." 

The  colour  flashed  into  the  girl's  cheeks ;  she  made 
no  answer  at  first,  and  then  murmured,  "  You  are 
very  kind ! " 

"  One  must  do  something,  you  know,"  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  said.  "  I  cannot  let  all  your  goodness  make 


278  NOBODY. 

me  idle.  I  am  very  fond  of  drawing,  myself;  it  has 
whiled  away  many  an  hour  for  me.  Besides,  it 
enables  one  to  keep  a  record  of  pretty  and  pleasant 
things,  wherever  one  goes." 

"We  live  among  our  pleasant  things,"  said  Lois; 
"  but  I  should  think  that  would  be  delightful  for 
the  people  who  travel." 

"  You  will  travel  some  day." 

"  No,  there  is  no  hope  of  that." 

"  You  would  like  it,  then?  " 

"0  who  would  not  like  it!  I  went  with  Mrs. 
Wishart  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals  last  summer;  and  it 
was  the  first  time  I  began  to  have  a  notion  what  a 
place  the  world  is." 

"  And  what  a  place  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"0  so  wonderfully  full  of  beautiful  things — so 
full !  so  full ! — and  of  such  different  beautiful  things. 
I  had  only  known  Shampuashuh  and  the  Sound 
and  New  York;  and  Appledore  was  like  a  new 
world."  Lois  spoke  with  a  kind  of  inner  fire,  which 
sparkled  in  her  eyes  and  gave  accent  to  her  words. 

"  What  was  the  charm  ?  1  do  not  know  Apple 
dore,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  carelessly,  but  watching 
her. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  put  some  things  in  words.  I 
seemed  to  be  out  of  the  world  of  everyday  life,  and 
surrounded  by  what  was  pure  and  fresh  and  power 
ful  and  beautiful — it  all  comes  back  to  me  now, 
when  I  think  of  the  surf  breaking  on  the  rocks  and 
the  lights  and  colours,  and  the  feeling  of  the  air." 

"But  how  were  the  people?  were  they  uncommon 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  279 

too?  Part  of  one's  impression  is  apt  to  come  from 
the  human  side  of  the  thing." 

"  Mine  did  not.  The  people  of  the  Islands  are 
queer,  rough  people,  almost  as  strange  as  all  the 
rest;  bat- 1  saw  more  of  some  city  people  staying 
at  the  hotel;  and  they  did  not  fit  the  place  at 
all." 

"Why  not?" 

"  They  did  not  enjoy  it.  They  did  not  seem  to 
see  what  I  saw,  unless  they  were  told  of  it;  nor 
then  either." 

"Well,  you  must  come  in  and  let  me  teach  you 
to  draw,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  I  shall  want  to  feel 
that  I  have  some  occupation,  or  I  shall  not  be 
happy.  Perhaps  your  sister  will  come  too." 

"Madge?  0  th'ank  you!  how  kind  of  you!  I 
do  not  know  whether  Madge  ever  thought  of  such 
a  thing." 

"  You  are  the  man  of  business  of  the  house.  What 
is  she?" 

"Madge  is  the  dairy  woman,  and  the  sempstress. 
But  we  all  do  that." 

"You  are  fond  of  reading?  I  have  brought  a 
few  books  with  me,  which  I  hope  you  will  use 
freely.  I  shall  unpack  them  by  and  by." 

"That  will  be  delightful,"  Lois  said  with  a  bright 
expression  of  pleasure.  "  We  have  not  subscribed 
to  the  library,  because  we  felt  we  could  hardly  spare 
the  money." 

They  were  called  to  breakfast;  and  Mrs.  Barclay 
studied  again  with  fresh  interest  all  the  family  group. 


280  NOBODY. 

No  want  of  capacity  and  receptive  readiness,  she 
was  sure ;  nor  of  active  energy.  Sense,  and  self-re 
liance,  and  independence,  and  quick  intelligence, 
were  to  be  read  in  the  face  and  manner  of  each  one ; 
good  ground  to  work  upon.  Still  Mrs.  Barclay  pri 
vately  shook  her  head  at  her  task. 

"  Miss  Madge,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  I  have  been 
proposing  to  teach  your  sister  to  draw.  Would  you 
like  to  join  her  ?  " 

Madge  seemed  too  much  astonished  to  answer 
immediately.  Charity  spoke  up  and  asked,  "To 
draw  what?" 

"  Anything  she  likes.    Pretty  things,  and  places." 

"  I  don't  see  what's  the  use.  When  you've  got  a 
pretty  thing,  what  should  you  draw  it  for  ?  " 

"Suppose  you  have  not  got  it." 

"  Then  you  can't  draw  it,"  said  Charity. 

"0  Charity,  you  don't  understand,"  cried  Lois. 
"  If  I  had  known  how  to  draw,  I  could  have  brought 
you  home  pictures  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals  last  summer." 

"  They  wouldn't  have  been  like." 

Lois  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Barclay  "remarked,  that 
was  rather  begging  the  question. 

"  What  question  ?  "  said  Charity. 

"I  mean,  you  are  assuming  a  thing  without 
evidence." 

"  It  don't  need  evidence,"  said  Charity.  "  I  never 
saw  a  picture  yet  that  was  worth  a  red  cent.  It's 
only  a  make-believe." 

"  Then  you  will  not  join  our  drawing  class,  Miss 
Charity?" 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  281 

0 

"  No ;  and  I  should  think  Madge  had  better  stick 
to  her  sewing.  There's  plenty  to  do." 

"Duty  comes  first,"  said  the  old  lady;  "and  I 
shouldn't  think  duty  would  leave  much  time  for 
making  marks  on  paper." 

The  first  thing  Mrs.  Barclay  did  after  breakfast 
was  to  unpack  some  of  her  books  and  get  out  her 
writing  box ;  and  then  the  impulse  seized  her  to  write 
to  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"  I  had  meant  to  wait,"  she  wrote  him,  "  and  not 
say  anything  to  you  until  I  had  had  more  time  for 
observation ;  but  I  have  seen  so  much  already  that 
my  head  is  in  an  excited  state,  and  I  feel  I  must 
relieve  myself  by  talking  to  you.  Which  of  these 
ladies  is  the  one?  Is  it  the  black-haired  beauty, 
with  her  white  forehead  and  clean-cut  features? 
she  is  very  handsome !  But  the  other,  I  confess,  is 
my  favourite;  she  is  less  handsome,  but  more  lovely. 
Yes,  she  is  lovely;  and  both  of  them  have  capacity 
and  cleverness.  But  Philip,  they  belong  to  the 
strictly  religious  sort;  I  see  that;  the  old  grand 
mother  is  a  regular  Puritan,  and  the  girls  follow 
her  lead ; '  and  I  am  in  a  confused  state  of  mind 
thinking  what  can  ever  be  the  end  of  it  all.  What 
ever  would  you  do  with  such  a  wife,  Philip  Dil 
lwyn?  You  are  not  a  bad  sort  of  man  at  all;  at 
least  you  know  /think  well  of  you;  but  you  are  not 
a  Puritan,  and  this  little  girl  is.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  anything  against  her;  only,  you  want  me  to 
make  a  woman  of  the  world  out  of  the  girl — and  I 
doubt  much  whether  I  shall  be  able.  There  is 


282  NOBODY. 

strength  in  the  whole  family ;  it  is  a  characteristic 
of  them;  a  capital  trait,  of  course,  but  in  certain 
cases  interfering  with  any  effort  to  mould  or  bend 
the  material  to  which  it  belongs.  What  would  you 
do,  Philip,  with  a  wife  who  would  disapprove  of 
worldly  pleasures,  and  refuse  to  take  part  in  worldly 
plans,  and  insist  on  bringing  all  questions  to  the 
bar  of  the  Bible?  I  have  indeed  heard  no  dis 
tinctively  religious  conversation  here  yet;  but  I 
cannot  be  mistaken;  I  see  what  they  are;  I  know 
what  they  will  say  when  they  open,  their  lips.  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  a  swindler,  taking  your  money  on 
false  pretences;  setting  about  an  enterprise  which 
may  succeed,  possibly,  but  would  succeed  little  to 
your  advantage.  Think  better  of  it  and  give  it  up ! 
I  am  unselfish  in  saying  that;  for  the  people  please 
me.  Life  in  their  house,  I  can  fancy,  might  be  very 
agreeable  to  me;  but  I  am  not  seeking  to  marry 
them,  and  so  there  is  no  violent  forcing  of  incon 
gruities  into  union  and  fellowship.  Phil,  you  can 
not  marry  a  Puritan." 

How  Mrs.  Barclay  was  to  initiate  a  system  of 
higher  education  in  this  farmhouse,  she  did  not 
clearly  see.  Drawing  was  a  simple  thing  enough; 
but  how  was  she  to  propose  teaching  languages,  or 
suggest  algebra,  or  insist  upon  history?  She  must 
wait,  and  feel  her  way;  and  in  the  mean  time  she 
scattered  books  about  her  room,  books  chosen  with 
some  care,  to  act  as  baits;  hoping  so  by  and  by  to 
catch  her  fish.  Meanwhile  she  made  herself  very 
agreeable  in  the  family;  and  that  without  any  par- 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  283 

ticular  exertion,  which  she  rightly  judged  would 
hinder  and  not  help  her  object. 

"Isn't  she  pleasant?"  said  Lois,  one  evening 
when  the  family  were  alone. 

"  She's-  elegant !  "  said  Madge. 

*'  She  has  plenty  to  say  for  herself,"  added  Charity. 

"  But  she  don't  look  like  a  happy  woman,  Lois," 
Madge  went  on.  "  Her  face  is  regularly  sad,  when 
she  aint  talking." 

"But  it's  sweet  when  she  is." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  girls,"  said  Charity,— " she's 
a  real  proud  woman." 

"0  Charity!  nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  Lois. 
"  She  is  as  kind  as  she  can  be." 

"  Who  said  she  wasn't  ?  I  said  she  was  proud, 
and  she  is.  She's  a  right,  for  all  I  know;  she  aint 
like  our  Shampuashuh  people." 

"  She  is  a  lady,"  said  Lois. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Lois?"  Madge 
fired  up.  "  You  don't  mean,  I  hope,  that  the  rest 
of  us  are  not  ladies,  do  you  ?  " 

"Not  like  her." 

"  Well,  why  should  we  be  like  her  ?  " 

•'Because  her  ways  are  so  beautiful.  I  should 
be  glad  to  be  like  her.  She  is  just  what  you 
called  her — elegant." 

"  Everybody  has  their  own  ways,"  said  Madge. 

"  I  hope  none  of  you  will  be  like  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Armadale  gravely;  "for  she's  a  woman  of  the 
world,  and  knows  the  world's  ways,  and  she  knows 
nothin'  else,  poor  thing !  " 


284  NOBODY. 

"  But  grandmother,"  Lois  put  in,  "  some  of  the 
.world's  ways  are  good." 

"Be  they?"  said  the  old  lady.  "I  don'  know 
which  of  'em." 

"  Well  grandmother,  this  way  of  beautiful  man 
ners.  They  don't  all  have  it — I  don't  mean  that — 
but  some  of  them  do.  They  seem  to  know  exactly 
how  to  behave  to  everybody,  and  always  what  to 
do  or  to  say;  and  you  can  see  Mrs.  Barclay  is  one 
of  those.  And  I  like  those  people.  There  is  a 
charm  about  them." 

"  Don't  you  always  know  what's  right  to  do  or 
say,  with  the  Bible  before  you  ?  " 

"0  grandmother,  but  I  mean  in  little  things; 
little  words  and  ways,  and  tones  of  voice  even. 
It  isn't  like  Shampuashuh  people." 

"  Well,  i6-e're  Shampuashuh  folks,"  said  Charity. 
"I  hope  you  won't  set  up  for  nothin'  else,  Lois. 
I  guess  your  head  got  turned  a  bit,  with  goin' 
round  the  world.  But  I  wish  I  knew  what  makes 
her  look  so  sober !  " 

"  She  has  lost  her  husband." 

"Other  folks  have  lost  their  husbands,  and  a 
good  many  of  'em  have  found  another.  Don't  be 
ridiculous,  Lois ! " 

The  first  bait  that  took,  in  the  shape  of  books, 
was  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake.  Lois  opened  it  one 
day,  was  caught,  begged  to  be  allowed  to  read  it; 
and  from  that  time  had  it  in  her  hand  whenever 
her  hand  was  free  to  hold  it.  She  read  it  aloud, 
sometimes,  to  her  grandmother,  who  listened  with 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  285 

a  half  shake  of  her  head,  but  allowed  it  was  pretty. 
Charity  was  less  easy  to  bribe  with  sweet  sounds. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  use  o1  that  ? "  she  de 
manded  one  day,  when  she  had  stood  still  for  ten 
minutes  in  her  way  through  the  room,  to  hear  the 
account  of  Fitz  James's  adventure  in  the  wood 
with  Roderick  Dhu. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  said  Lois. 

"  Don't  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  And  there  sits 
Madge  with  her  mouth  open,  as  if  it  was  something 
to  eat;  and  Lois's  cheeks  are  as  pink  as  if  she  ex 
pected  the  people  to  step  out  and  walk  in.  Mother, 
do  you  like  all  that  stuff  ?  " 

"  It  is  poetry,  Charity,"  cried  Lois. 

"What's  the  use  o'  poetry?  can  you  tell  me? 
It  seems  to  me  nonsense  for  a  man  to  write  in 
that  way.  If  he  has  got  something  to  say,  why 
don't  he  say  it,  and  be  done  with  it  ?  " 

"  He  does  say  it,  in  a  most  beautiful  way." 

"  It'd  be  a  queer  way  of  doing  business !  " 

"  It  is  not  business,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "  Char 
ity  will  you  not  understand  ?  It  is  poetry." 

"  What  is  poetry  ?  " 

But  alas !  Charity  had  asked  what  nobody  could 
answer,  and  she  had  the  field  in  triumph. 

"  It  is  just  a  jingle  jangle,  and  what  I  call  non 
sense.  Mother,  aint  that  what  you  would  say  is 
a-  waste  of  time  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale 
doubtfully,  applying  her  knitting-needle  to  the 
back  of  her  ear. 


286  NOBODY. 

"  It  isn't  nonsense ;  it  is  delightful !  "  said  Madge 
indignantly. 

"  You  want  me  to  go  on,  grandmother,  don't 
you?"  said  Lois.  "We  want  to  know  about  tho 
fight,  when  the  two  get  to  Coilantogle  ford." 

And  as  she  was  not  forbidden,  she  went  on; 
while  Charity  got  the  spice  box  she  had  come 
for  and  left  the  room  superior. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  was  read  through.  Mrs. 
Barclay  had  hoped  to  draw  on  some  historical 
inquiries  by  means  of  it;  but  before  she  could 
find  a  chance,  Lois  took  up  Greville's  Memoirs. 
This  she  read  to  herself;  and  not  many  pages 
before  she  came  with  the  book  and  a  puzzled  face 
to  Mrs.  Barclay's  room.  Mrs.  Barclay  was,  we 
may  say,  a  fisher  lying  in  wait  for  a  bite;  now 
she  saw  she  had  got  one ;  the  thing  was  to  haul 
in  the  line  warily  and  skilfully.  She  broke  up  a 
piece  of  coal  on  the  fire,  and  gave  her  visiter  an 
easy  chair. 

"  Sit  there,  my  dear.  I  am  very  glad  of  your  com 
pany.  What  have  you  in  your  hand?  Greville?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  ask  you  about  some  things. 
Am  I  not  disturbing  you  ?  " 

"Most  agreeably.  I  can  have  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  talk  with  you.  What  is  the 
question  ?  " 

"  There  are  several  questions.  It  seems  to  me  a 
very  strange  book ! " 

"  Perhaps  it  is.     But  why  do  you  say  so  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  should   rather  say  that  the  people 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  287 

are  strange.  Is  this  what  the  highest  society  in 
England  is  like  ?  " 

"  In  what  particulars,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why  I  think  Shampuashuh  is  better.  I  am 
sure  Shampuashuh  would  be  ashamed  of  such 
doings." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  Mrs.  Barclay 
asked,  carefully  repressing  a  smile. 

"  Why  here  are  people  with  every  advantage, 
with  money  and  with  education  and  with  the 
power  of  place  and  rank, — living  for  nothing  but 
mere  amusement,  and  very  poor  amusement  too." 

"The  conversations  alluded  to  were  very  often 
not  p6*br  amusment.  Some  of  the  society  were 
very  brilliant  and  very  experienced  men." 

"But  they  did. nothing  with  their  lives." 

"  How  does  that  appear?" 

"  Here  at  the  Duke  of  York's,"  said  Lois  turning 
over  her  leaves; — "  they  sat  up  till  four  in  the  morn 
ing  playing  whist;  and  on  Sunday  they  amused 
themselves  shooting  pistols  and  eating  fruit  in  the 
garden,  and  playing  with  the  monkeys!  That  is 
like  children." 

"  My  dear,  half  the  world  do  nothing  with  their 
lives,  as  you  phrase  it." 

"  But  they  ought.  And  you  expect  it  of  people 
in  high  places,  and  having  all  sorts  of  advantages." 

"  You  expect  then  what  you  do  not  find." 

"And  is  all  of  what  is  called  the  great  world,  no 
better  than  that  ?  " 

"  Some  of  it  is  better."     (0  Philip,  Philip,  where 


288  NOBODY. 

are  you?  thought  Mrs.  Barclay.)  "They  do  not  all 
play  whist  all  night.  But  you  know,  Lois,  people 
come  together  to  be  amused ;  and  it  is  not  every 
body  that  can  talk,  or  act,  sensibly  for  a  long 
stretch." 

"How  can  they  play  cards  all  night? " 

"  Whist  is  very  ensnaring.  And  the  little  excite 
ment  of  stakes  draws  people  on." 

"  Stakes?  "  said  Lois  inquiringly. 

"Sums  staked  on  the  game." 

"  Oh !     But  that  is  worse  than  foolish." 

"It  is  to  keep  the  game  from  growing  tiresome. 
Do  you  see  any  harm  in  it?  " 

"  Why  that's  gambling." 

"  In  a  small  way." 

"  Is  it  always  in  a  small  way  ?  " 

"  People  do  not  generally  play  very  high  at  whist." 

"  It  is  all  the  same  thing,"  said  Lois.  "  People 
begin  with  a  little,  and  then  a  little  will  not  satisfy 
them." 

"  True ;  but  one  must  take  the  world  as  one  finds 
it." 

"Is  the  New  York  world  like  this?"  said  Lois 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  No !  Not  in  the  coarseness  you  find  Mr.  Gre- 
ville  tells  of.  In  the  matter  of  pleasure-seeking,  I 
am  afraid  times  and  places  are  much  alike.  Those 
who  live  for  pleasure,  are  driven  to  seek  it  in  all 
manner  of  ways.  The  ways  sometimes  vary;  the 
principle  does  not." 

"And  do  all  the  men  gamble?" 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  289 

"  No.  Many  do  not  touch  cards.  My  friend,  Mr. 
Dillwyn,  for  example." 

44  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?     Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

44  Very  well.  He  was  a  dear  friend  of  my  hus 
band,  and  has  been  a  faithful  friend  to  me.  Do  you 
know  him  ?  " 

44  A  little.     I  have  seen  him." 

*4  You  must  not  expect  too  much  from  the  world, 
my  dear." 

44  According  to  what  you  say,  one  must  not  ex 
pect  anythiny  from  it." 

44  That  is  too  severe." 

44  No,"  said  Lois.  44  What  is  there  to  admire  or 
respect  in  a  person  who  lives  only  for  pleasure  ? " 

44  Sometimes  there  are  fine  qualities,  and  brilliant 
parts,  and  noble  powers." 

44 Ah,  that  makes  it  only  worse!"  cried  Lois. 
44  Fine  qualities,  and  brilliant  parts,  and  noble  powers, 
all  used  for  nothing !  That  is  miserable ;  and  when 
there  is  so  much  to  do  in  the  world,  too." 

44  Of  what  kind  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Barclay,  curious  to 
know  her  companion's  course  of  thought. 

44  0,  help." 

44  What  sort  of  help?" 

44  Almost  all  sorts,"  said  Lois.  "  You  must  know 
even  better  than  I.  Don't  you  see  a  great  many 
people  in  New  York  that  are  in  want  of  some  sort 
of  help?" 

44 Yes;  but  it  is  not  always  easy  to  give,  even 
where  the  need  is  greatest.  People's  troubles  come 
largely  from  their  follies." 


290  NOBODY. 

44  Or  from  other  people's  follies." 

"That  is  true.     But  how  would  you  help,  Lois?" 

"Where  there's  a  will,  there's  a  way,  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"You  are  thinking  of  help  to  the  poor?  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  that  done." 

"I  am  thinking  of  poverty,  and  sickness,  and 
weakness,  and  ignorance,  and  injustice.  And  a 
grand  man  could  do  a  great  deal.  But  not  if  he 
lived  like  the  creatures  in  this  book.  I  never  saw 
such  a  book !  " 

"  But  we  must  take  men  as  we  find  them ;  and 
most  men  are  busy  seeking  their  own  happiness. 
You  cannot  blame  them  for  that.  It  is  human 
nature." 

"  I  blame  them  for  seeking  it  so.  And  it  is  not 
happiness  that  people  play  whist  for  till  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning." 

"What  then?" 

"  Forgetfulness,  I  should  think ;  distraction ;  be 
cause  they  do  not  know  anything  about  hap 
piness." 

"  Who  does?"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  sadly. 

Lois  was  silent,  not  because  she  had  not  some 
thing  to  say,  but  because  she  was  not  certain  how 
best  to  say  it.  There  was  no  doubt  in  her  sweet 
face,  rather  a  grave  assurance  which  stimulated 
Mrs.  Barclay's  curiosity. 

"We  must  take  people  as  we  find  them,"  she  re 
peated.  "  You  cannot  expect  men  who  live  for 
pleasure  to  give  up  their  search  for  the  sake  of  other 
people's  pleasure." 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  291 

"Yet  that  is  the  way, — which  they  miss,"  said 
Lois. 

"The  way  to  what?" 

"To  real  enjoyment.  To  life  that  is  worth 
living." 

"  What  would  you  have  them  do?" 

"  Only  what  the  Bible  says." 

"  I  do  not  believe  I  know  the  Bible  as  well  as 
you  do.  Of  what  directions  are  you  thinking? 
4  The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you '  ?  " 

"Not  that,"  said  Lois.  "Let  me  get  my  Bible, 
and  I  will  tell  you. — This,  Mrs.  Barclay — *  To  loose 
the  bands  of  wickedness,  to  undo  the  heavy  bur 
dens,  and  to  let  the  oppressed  go  free,  and  that 

ye  break  every  yoke To  deal  thy  bread  to 

the  hungry,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor  that  are 
cast  out  to  thy  house ;  when  thou  seest  the  naked, 
that  thou  cover  him ;  and  that  thou  hide  not  thyself 
from  thine  own  flesh' " 

"  And  do  you  think,  to  live  right,  one  must  live 
so?" 

"  It  is  the  Bible ! "  said  Lois,  with  so  innocent  a 
look  of  having  answered  all  questions,  that  Mrs. 
Barclay  was  near  smiling. 

"  Do  you  think  anybody  ever  did  live  so  ?  " 

"Job." 

"  Did  ha!     I  forget." 

Lois  turned  over  some  leaves,  and  again  read — 
" 4  When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me;  and 
when  the  eye  saw  me,  it  gave  witness  to  me:  be 
cause  I  delivered  the  poor  that  cried,  and  the  fa- 


292  .  NOBODY. 

therless,  and  him  that  had  none  to  help  him.  The 
blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came 
upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing 
for  joy.  .  .  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was 
I  to  the  lame.  I  was  a  father  to  the  poor:  arid 
the  cause  that  I  knew  not  I  searched  out.  And 
I  brake  the  jaws  of  the  wicked,  and  plucked  the 
spoil  out  of  his  teeth.' " 

"To  be  a,  father  to  the  poor,  in  these  days,  would 
give  a  man  enough  to  do,  certainly;  especially  if 
he  searched  out  all  the  causes  which  were  doubt 
ful.  It  would  take  all  a  man's  time,  and  all  his 
money  too,  if  he  were  as  rich  as  Job; — unless 
you  put  some  limit,  Lois." 

"  What  limit,  Mrs.  Barclay?  " 

"  Do  you  put  none  ?  I  was  not  long  ago  speak 
ing  with  a  friend,  such  a  man  of  parts  and  powers 
as  was  mentioned  just  now ;  a  man  who  thus  far  in 
his  life  has  done  nothing  but  for  his  own  cultiva 
tion  and  amusement.  I  was  urging  upon  him  to 
do  something  with  himself;  but  I  did  not  tell  him 
what.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  set  him  about 
righting  ail  the  wrongs  of  the  world." 

u  Is  he  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  not  say  so." 

"  Then  he  could  not.  One  must  love  other  peo 
ple,  to  live  for  them." 

"  Love  all  sorts  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  You  cannot  work  for  them  unless  you  do." 

"  Then  it  is  hopeless ! — unless  one  is  born  with 
an  exceptional  mind." 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  293 

"0  no,"  said  Lois  smiling,  "not  hopeless.  The 
love  of  Christ  brings  the  love  of  all  that  he  loves." 

There  was  a  glow  and  a  sparkle,  and  a  tender 
ness  too,  in  the  girl's  face,  which  made  Mrs.  Barclay 
look  at  her  in  a  somewhat  puzzled  admiration.  She 
did  not  understand  Lois's  words,  and  she  saw  that 
her  face  was  a  commentary  upon  them;  therefore 
also  unintelligible;  but  it  was  strangely  pure  and 
fair.  "  You  would  do  for  Philip,  I  do  believe,"  she 
thought,  "if  he  could  get  you;  but  he  will  never 
get  you."  Aloud  she  said  nothing.  By  and  by  Lois 
returned  to  the  book  she  had  brought  in  with  her. 

"  Here  are  some  words  which  I  cannot  read ;  they 
are  not  English.  What  are  they  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barclay  read:  " Le  bon  gout,  les  ris,  Taimable 
liberte.  That  is  French." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Good  taste,  laughter,  and  charming  liberty.  You 
do  not  know  French  ?  " 

"  0  no,"  said  Lois  with  a  sort  of  breath  of  long 
ing.  "  French  words  come  in  quite  often  here,  and 
I  am  always  so  curious  to  know  what  they  mean." 

"  Very  well,  why  not  learn  ?     I  will  teach  you." 

"  0  Mrs.  Barclay  !  "— 

"  It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure.  And  it 
is  very  easy." 

"0  I  do  not  care  about  that"  said  Lois;  "but  I 
would  be  so  glad  to  know  a  little  more  than  I  do." 

"You  seem  to  me  to  have  thought  a  good  deal 
more  than  most  girls  of  your  age ;  and  thought  is 
better  than  knowledge*" 


294  NOBODY. 

"  Ah,  but  one  needs  knowledge  in  order  to  think 
justly." 

"  An  excellent  remark !  which — if  you  will  for 
give  me — I  was  making  to  myself  a  few  minutes 
ago." 

"  A  few  minutes  ago  ?  About  what  I  said  ?  0 
but  there  I  have  knowledge,"  said  Lois  smiling. 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lois,  gravely  now.  "The  Bible  can 
not  be  mistaken,  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"  But  your  application  of  it  ?  " 

"How  can  that  be  mistaken?  The  words  are 
plain." 

"Pardon  me.  I  was  only  venturing  to  think 
that  you  could  have  seen  little,  here  in  Shampu- 
ashuh,  of  the  miseries  of  the  world,  and  so  know 
little  of  the  difficulty  of  getting  rid  of  them  or  of 
ministering  to  them  effectually." 

"Not  much — "  Lois  agreed.  "Yet  I  have  seen 
so  much  done  by  people  without  means — I  thought, 
those  who  have  means  might  do  more." 

"  What  have  you  seen  ?  Do  tell  me.  Here  I  am 
ignorant;  except  in  so  far  as  I  know  what  some 
large  societies  accomplish,  and  fail  to  accomplish." 

"  I  have  not  seen  much,"  Lois  repeated.  "  But  I 
know  one  person,  a  farmer's  wife,  no  better  off  than 
a  great  many  people  here,  who  has  brought  up  and 
educated  a  dozen  girls  who  were  friendless  and 
poor." 

"  A  dozen  girls !  "  Mrs.  Barclay  echoed. 

"  I  think  there  have  been  thirteen.     She  had  no 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  295 

children  of  her  own;  she  was  comfortably  well  off; 
and  she  took  these  girls,  one  after  another,  some 
times  two  or  three  together;  and  taught  them  and 
trained  them,  and  fed  and  clothed  them,  and  sent 
them  to  school;  and  kept  them  with  her  until  one 
by  one  they  married  off.  They  all  turned  out  well." 

"  I  am  dumb ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  Giving  mon 
ey  is  one  thing;  I  can  understand  that;  but  taking 
strangers'  children  into  one's  house  and  home  life 
— and  a  dozen  strangers'  children ! " 

"I  know  another  woman,  not  so  well  off,  who 
does  her  own  work,  as  most  do  here;  who  goes  to 
nurse  any  one  she  hears  of  that  is  sick  and  cannot 
afford  to  get  help.  She  will  sit  up  all  night  taking 
care  of  somebody,  and  then  at  break  of  the  morning 
go  home  to  make  her  own  fire  and  get  her  own  fam 
ily's  breakfast." 

u  But  that  is  superb ! "  cried  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  And  my  father,"  Lois  went  on  with  a  lowered 
voice, — "  he  was  not  very  well  off,  but  he  used  to 
keep  a  certain  little  sum  for  lending;  to  lend  to  any 
body  that  might  be  in  great  need;  and  generally, 
as  soon  as  one  person  paid  it  back  another  person 
was  in  want  of  it." 

"Was  it  always  paid  back?" 

"  Always;  except  I  think  at  two  times.  Once  the 
man  died  before  he  could  repay  it.  The  other  time 
it  was  lent  to  a  woman,  a  widow;  and  she  married 
again,  and  between  the  man  and  the  woman  my 
father  never  could  get  his  money.  But  it  was  made 
up  to  him  another  way.  He  lost  nothing." 


296  NOBODY. 

"  You  have  been  in  a  different  school  from  mine, 
Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "I  am  filled  with  ad 
miration." 

"  You  see,"  Lois  went  on,  "  I  thought,  if  with  no 
money  or  opportunity  to  speak  of,  one  can  do  so 
much,  what  might  be  done  if  one  had  the  power 
and  the  will  too  ?  " 

"  But  in  my  small  experience  it  is  by  no  means 
the  rule,  that  money  lent  is  honestly  paid  back  again." 

"Ah,"  said  Lois  with  an  irradiating  smile,  "but 
this  money  was  lent  to  the  Lord;  I  suppose  that 
makes  the  difference." 

44  And  are  you  bound  to  think  well  of  no  man  but 
one  who  lives  after  this  exalted  fashion?  How 
will  you  ever  get  married,  Lois  ?  " 

44 1  should  not  like  to  be  married  to  this  Duke  of 
York  the  book  tells  of;  nor  to  the  writer  of  the 
book,"  Lois  said  smiling. 

44  That  Duke  of  York  was  brother  to  the  King  of 
England." 

44 The  King  was  worse  yet!  He  was  not  even 
respectable." 

"I  believe  you  are  right.  Come — let  us  begin 
our  French  lessons." 

With  shy  delight,  Lois  came  near  and  followed 
with  most  eager  attention  the  instructions  of  her 
friend.  Mrs.  Barclay  fetched  a  volume  of  Florian's 
easy  writing;  and  to  the  end  of  her  life  Lois  will 
never  forget  the  opening  sentences  in  which  she 
made  her  first  essay  at  French  pronunciation  and 
received  her  first  knowledge  of  what  French  words 


GREVILLE'S  MEMOIRS.  297 

mean.  "  Non  loin  de  la  ville  de  Cures,  dans  le  pays 
des  Sabins,  au  milieu  d'  une  antique  foret,  s' 
eleve  un  temple  consacre  a  Ceres."  So  it  began; 
and  the  words  had  a  truly  witching  interest 
for  Lois..  But  while  she  delightedly  forgot  all 
she  had  been  talking  about,  Mrs.  Barclay,  not  de 
lightedly,  recalled  and  went  over  it.  Philip,  Philip ! 
your  case  is  dark !  she  was  saying.  And  what  am 
I  about,  trying  to  help  you! 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

LEARNING. 

THERE  came  a  charming  new  life  into  the  house 
of  the  Lothrops.  Madge  and  Lois  were  learn 
ing  to  draw,  and  Lois  was  prosecuting  her  French 
studies  with  a  zeal  which  promised  to  carry  all  be 
fore  it.  Every  minute  of  her  time  was  used ;  every 
opportunity  was  grasped;  Numa  Pompilius  and  the 
dictionary  were  in  her  hands  whenever  her  hands 
were  free;  or  Lois  was  bending  over  her  drawing 
with  an  intent  eye  and  eager  fingers.  Madge  kept 
her  company  in  these  new  pursuits,  perhaps  with 
less  engrossing  interest;  nevertheless  with  steady 
purpose  and  steady  progress.  Then  Mrs.  Barclay 
received  from  New  York  a  consignment  of  beauti 
ful  drawings  and  engravings  from  the  best  old  mas 
ters  and  some  of  the  best  of  the  new;  and  she  found 
her  hands  becoming  very  full.  To  look  at  these 
engravings  was  almost  a  passion  with  the  two  girls; 
but  not  in  the  common  way  of  picture  seeing.  Lois 
wanted  to  understand  everything;  and  it  was  neces 
sary  therefore  to  go  into  wide  fields  of  knowledge, 
where  the  paths  branched  many  ways,  and  to  fol- 

(298) 


LEARNING.  299 

low  these  various  tracks  out,  one  after  another. 
This  could  not  be  done  all  in  talking;  and  Lois 
plunged  into  a  very  sea  of  reading.  Mrs.  Barclay 
was  not  obliged  to  restrain  her,  for  the  girl  was 
thorough -and  methodical  in  her  ways  of  study  as 
of  doing  other  things ;  however,  she  would  carry  on 
two  or  three  lines  of  reading  at  once.  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  wrote  to  her  unknown  correspondent,  "  Send 
me  Sismondi";  "send  me  Hallam's  Middle  Ages"; 
"send  me  'Walks  about  Kome';"  "send  me  Plu 
tarch's  Lives  " ; "  send  me  D'Aubigne's  Keformation  " ; 
at  last  she  wrote,  "  Send  me  Kuskin's  Modern  Paint 
ers.  I  have  the  most  enormous  intellectual  appetite 
to  feed  that  ever  I  had  to  do  with  in  my  life.  And 
yet  no  danger  of  an  indigestion.  Positively,  Philip, 
my  task  is  growing  from  day  to  day  delightful;  it 
is  only  when  I  think  of  the  end  and  aim  of  it  all 
that  I  get  feverish  and  uneasy.  At  present  we  are 
going  with  4a  full  sail  and  a  flowing  sea';  a  regu 
lar  sweeping  into  knowledge,  with  a  smooth,  easy, 
swift  occupying  and  taking  possession,  which  gives 
the  looker-on  a  stir  of  wondering  admiration. 
Those  engravings  were  a  great  success;  they  opened 
for  me,  and  at  once,  doors  before  which  I  might 
have  waited  some  time;  and  now,  eyes  are  explor 
ing  eagerly  the  vast  realms  those  doors  unclose, 
and  hesitating  only  in  which  first  to  set  foot.  You 
may  send  the  'Stones  of  Venice'  too;  I  foresee 
that  it  will  be  useful;  and  the  'Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture.'  I  am  catching  my  breath,  with  the 
swiftness  of  the  way  we  go  on.  It  is  astonishing, 


300  NOBODY. 

what  all  clustered  round  a  view  of  Milan  cathedral 
yesterday.  By  the  way,  Philip, — no  hurry — but  by 
and  by  a  stereoscope  would  be  a  good  thing  here. 
Let  it  be  a  little  hand  glass,  not  a  great  instrument 
of  unvarying  routine  and  magnificent  sameness." 

Books  came  by  packages  and  packages.  Such 
books !  The  eyes  of  the  two  girls  gloated  over  them, 
as  they  helped  Mrs.  Barclay  unpack;  the  room  grew 
full,  with  delightful  disorder  of  riches ;  but  none  too 
much,  for  they  began  to  feel  their  minds  so  empty 
that  no  amount  of  provision  could  be  too  generous. 

"The  room  is  getting  to  be  running-over  full. 
What  will  you  do,  Mrs.  Barclay?  " 

"It  is  terrible  when  you  have  to  sweep  the 
carpet,  isn't  it?  I  must  send  for  some  book  cases." 

"You  might  let  Mr.  Midgin  put  up  some  shelves 
— I  could  stain  them,  and  make  them  look  very 
nice." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Midgin?" 

"  The  carpenter." 

"Oh!  Well.— I  think  we  had  better  send  for 
him,  Lois. " 

The  door  stood  open  into  the  kitchen,  or  dining 
room  rather,  on  account  of  the  packing  cases  which 
the  girls  were  just  moving  out;  then  appeared  the 
figure  of  Mrs.  Marx  in  the  opening. 

"Lois,  Charity  aint  at  home — How  much  beef 
are  you  goin'  to  want  ?  " 

"Beef?"  said  Lois,  smiling  at  the  transition  in 
her  thoughts. — "For  salting,  you  mean?" 

"For  salting,  and  for  smoking,  and  for  mince 


LEARNING.  301 

• 

meat,  and  for  pickling.  What  is  the  girl  think 
ing  of?" 

"  She  is  thinking  of  books  just  now,  Mrs.  Marx," 
suggested  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  Books !  "  The  lady  stepped  nearer  and  looked 
in.  "Well,  I  declare!  I  should  think  you  had 
some.  What  in  all  the  world  can  you  do  with 
so  many  ?  " 

"Just  what  we  were  considering.  I  think  we 
must  have  the  carpenter  here,  to  put  up  some 
shelves." 

"  Well  I  should  say  that  was  plain.  But  when 
you  have  got  'em  on  the  shelves,  what  next? 
What  will  you  do  with  'em  then?" 

"  Take  'em  down  and  read  them,  aunt  Anne." 

"Your  life  aint  as  busy  as  mine,  then,  if  you 
have  time  for  all  that.  What's  the  good  o'  readin' 
so  much  ?  " 

"  There's  so  much  to  know,  that  we  don't  know ! " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what," — said  Mrs.  Marx, 
going  round  and  picking  up  one  book  after  an 
other.  "  You've  been  to  school,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Lois  changed  her  tone. 

"  I'll  talk  to  Charity  about  the  beef,  and  let  you 
know,  aunt  Anne." 

"  Well,  come  out  to  the  other  room  and  let  me 
talk  to  you !  Good  afternoon,  ma'am — I  hope  you 
don't  let  these  girls  make  you  too  much  worry. 
— Now,  Lois,"  (after  the  door  was  shut  between 
them  and  Mrs.  Barclay)  "  I  just  want  you  to  tell 
me  what  you  and  Madge  are  about  ?  " 


302  NOBODY. 

Lois  told  her,  and  Mrs.  Marx  listened  with  a 
judicial  air;  then  observed  gravely, 

"'Seems  to  me,  there  aint  much  sense  in  all 
that,  Lois." 

"  0  yes,  aunt  Anne  !  there  is." 

"  What's  the  use  ?  What  do  you  want  to  know 
more  tongues  than  your  own  for,  to  begin  with  ? 
you  can't  talk  but  in  one  at  once.  And  spending 
your  time  in  making  marks  on  paper !  I  believe 
in  girls  goin1  to  school,  and  gettin'  all  they  can 
there;  but  when  school  is  done,  then  they  have 
something  else  to  see  to.  I'd  rather  have  you 
raakin1  quilts  and  gettin'  ready  to  be  married; 
dom'  women's  work." 

u  I  do  my  work,"  said  Lois  gayly. 

"  Child,  your  head's  gettin'  turned.  Mother,  do 
you  know  the  way  Madge  and  Lois  are  goin'  on  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  I  understand  it.  And  I'll  tell  you.  I  like  learn 
ing, — nobody  better;  but  I  want  things  kept  in 
their  places.  And  I  tell  you,  if  this  is  let  to  go  on, 
it'll  be  like  Jack's  bean  vine  and  not  stop  at  the 
top  of  the  house;  arid  they'll  be  like  Jack,  and 
go  after  to  see,  and  never  come  back  to  common 
ground  any  more." 

Mrs.  Armadale  sat  looking  unenlightened. 
Madge,  who  had  come  in  midway  of  this  speech, 
stood  indignant. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  that's  not  like  you !  You  read  as 
much  yourself  as  ever  you  can ;  and  never  can  get 
books  enough." 


LEARNING.  303 

44 1  stick  to  English." 

"  English  or  French,  what's  the  odds  ?  " 

44  What  was  good  enough  for  your  fathers  and 
mothers,  ought  to  be  good  enough  for  you." 

44  That  won't  do,  aunt  Anne,"  retorted  Madge. 
44  You  were  wanting  a  Berkshire  pig  awhile  ago, 
and  I  heard  you  talking  of  4 short-horns.'" 

44  That's  it.  I'd  like  to  hear  you  talking  of  short 
horns." 

44  If  it  is  necessary,  I  could,"  said  Lois ; 44  but  there 
are  pleasanter  things  to  talk  about." 

44  There  you  are !  But  pictures  won't  help  Madge 
make  butter;  and  French  is  no  use  in  a  garden. 
It's  all  very  well  for  some  people,  I  suppose;  but, 
mother,  if  these  girls  go  on,  they'll  be  all  spoiled 
for  their  place  in  life.  This  lodger  of  yours  is  try 
ing  to  make  'em  like  herself." 

44 1  wish  she  could !  "  said  Madge. 

44 That's  it,  mother;  that's  what  I  say.  But  she's 
one  thing,  and  they're  another;  she  lives  in  her 
world,  which  aint  Shampuashuh  by  a  long  jump, 
and  they  live  in  Shampuashuh,  and  have  got  to 
live  there.  Aint  it  a  pity  to  get  their  heads  so  filled 
with  the  other  things  that  they'll  be  for  ever  out 
o'  conceit  o'  their  own  ?  " 

44  It  don't  work  so,  aunt  Anne,"  said  Lois. 

4'  It  will  work  so.  What  use  can  all  these  krink- 
um  krankums  be  to  you  ?  Shampuashuh  aint  the 
place  for  'em.  You'll  be  like  the  girl  that  got  a 
new  bonnet,  and  had  to  sit  with  her  head  out  o1 
window  to  wear  it." 


304  NOBODY. 

Madge's  cheeks  grew  red.     Lois  laughed. 

"  Daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale,  "  'seems  to  me 
you  are  making  a  storm  in  a  tea  pot." 

Mrs.  Marx  laughed  at  that;  then  became  quite 
serious  again. 

"  I  aint  doin'  that,"  she  said.  "  I  never  do.  And 
I've  no  enmity  against  all  manner  of  fiddle-faddling, 
if  folks  have  got  nothin'  better  to  do.  But  'taint  so 
with  our  girls.  They  work  for  their  livin',  and  they've 
got  to  work;  and  what  I  say  is,  they're  in  a  way 
to  get  to  hate  work,  if  they  don't  despise  it,  and  in 
my  judgment  that's  a  poor  business.  It's  going  the 
wrong  way  to  be  happy.  Mother,  they  ought  to 
marry  farmers ;  and  they  won't  look  at  a  farmer  in 
all  Shampuashuh,  if  you  let  'em  go  on." 

Lois  remarked  merrily  that  she  did  not  want  to 
look  at  a  man  anywhere. 

"Then  you  ought.  It's  time.  I'd  like  to  see 
you  married  to  a  good,  solid  man,  who  would 
learn  you  to  talk  of  short-horns  and  Berkshires. 
Life's  life,  chickens;  and  it  aint  the  tinkle  of  a 
piano.  All  well  enough  for  your  neighbour  in  the 
other  room ;  but  you're  a  different  sort." 

Privately,  Lois  did  not  want  to  be  of  a  different 
sort.  The  refinement,  the  information,  the  accom 
plishments,  the  grace  of  manner,  which  in  a  high 
degree  belonged  to  Mrs.  Barclay,  seemed  to  her 
very  desirable  possessions  and  endowments;  and 
the  mental  life  of  a  person  so  enriched  and  gifted 
appeared  to  her  far  to  be  preferred  over  a  horizon 
bounded  by  cheese  and  bed  quilts.  Mrs.  Marx  was 


LEARNING.  305 

not  herself  a  narrow-minded  woman,  or  one  want 
ing  in  appreciation  of  knowledge  and  culture ;  but 
she  was  also  a  shrewd  business  woman,  and  what 
she  had  seen  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals  had  possibly  giv 
en  her  a  key  wherewith  to  find  her  way  through  cer 
tain  problems.  She  was  not  sure  but  Lois  had  been 
a  little  touched  by  the  attentions  of  that  very  hand 
some,  fair-haired  and  elegant  gentleman  who  had 
done  Mrs.  Marx  the  honour  to  take  her  into  his 
confidence;  she  was  jealous  lest  all  this  study  of 
things  unneeded  in  Shampuashuh  life  might  have 
a  dim  purpose  of  growing  fitness  for  some  other. 
There  she  did  Lois  wrong,  for  no  distant  image  of 
Mr.  Caruthers- was  connected  in  her  niece's  mind 
with  the  delight  of  the  new  acquirements  she  was 
making;  although  Tom  Caruthers  had  done  his 
part,  I  do  not  doubt,  towards  Lois's  keen  percep 
tion  of  the  beauty  and  advantage  of  such  acquire 
ments.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Tom,  when  she 
made  her  copies  and  studied  her  verbs ;  though  if 
she  had  never  known  the  society  in  which  she  met 
Tom  and  of  which  he  was  a  member,  she  might  not 
have  taken  hold  of  them  so  eagerly. 

"Mother,"  she  said  when  Mrs.  Marx  was  gone, 
— "  are  you  afraid  these  new  things  will  make  me 
forget  my  duties,  or  make  me  unfit  for  them  ?  " 

Mrs.  Armadale's  mind  was  a  shade  more  liber 
al  than  her  daughter's,  and  she  had  not  been  at 
the  Isles  of  Shoals.  She  answered  somewhat 
hesitatingly. 

"  No,  child, — I  don't  know  as  I  am.     I  don't  see 


306  NOBODY. 

as  they  do.  I  don't  see  what  use  they  will  be  to 
you;  but  maybe  they'll  be  some." 

"  They  are  pleasure,"  said  Lois. 

"  We  don't  live  for  pleasing  ourselves,  child." 

44 No,  mother;  but  don't  you  think,  if  duties  are 
not  neglected,  that  we  ought  to  educate  ourselves 
all  we  can,  and  get  all  of  every  sort  of  good  that 
we  can,  when  we  have  the  opportunity  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale;  "if  it  aint 
a  temptation,  it's  a  providence.  Maybe  you'll  find 
a  use  for  it  you  don't  think.  Only  take  care  it 
aint  a  temptation,  Lois." 

From  that  time  Lois's  studies  were  carried  on 
with  more  systematic  order.  She  would  not  neg 
lect  her  duties,  and  the  short  winter  days  left  her 
littie  spare  time  of  daylight;  therefore  she  rose  long 
before  daylight  came.  If  anybody  had  been  there 
to  look,  Lois  might  have  been  seen  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  family  room,  which  this  winter  rather  lost 
its  character  of  kitchen,  seated  at  the  table  with 
her  lamp  and  her  books;  the  room  warm  and  quiet, 
no  noise  but  the  snapping  of  the  fire  arid  breathing 
of  the  flames,  and  now  and  then  the  fall  of  a  brand. 
And  Lois  sitting  absorbed  and  intent,  motionless, 
except  when  the  above-mentioned  falling  brands 
obliged  her  to  get  up  and  put  them  in  their  places. 
Her  drawing  she  left  for  another  time  of  day;  she 
could  do  that  in  company;  in  these  hours  she  read 
and  wrote  French,  and  read  pages  and  pages  of 
history.  Sometimes  Madge  was  there  too ;  but  Lois 
always,  from  a  very  early  hour  until  the  dawn  was 


LEARNING.  307 

advanced  far  enough  for  her  to  see  to  put  Mrs.  Bar 
clay's  room  in  order.  Then  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure 
Lois  would  turn  down  her  lamp,  and  with  another 
breath  of  hope  and  expectation  betake  herself  to 
the  next  room  to  put  all  things  in  readiness  for 
its  owner's  occupancy  and  use;  which  occupancy 
and  use  involved  most  delightful  hours  of  reading 
and  talking  and  instruction  by  and  by.  Making 
the  fire,  sweeping,  brushing,  dusting,  regulating 
chairs  and  tables  and  books  and  trifles,  drawing 
back  the  curtains  and  opening  the  shutters;  which 
last,  to  be  sure,  she  began  with.  And  then  Lois 
went  to  do  the  same  offices  for  the  family  room, 
and  to  set  the  table  for  breakfast;  unless  Madge 
had  already  done  it. 

And  then  Lois  brought  her  Bible  and  read  to 
Mrs.  Armadale,  who  by  this  time  was  in  her  chair 
by  the  fireside  and  busy  with  her  knitting.  The 
knitting  was  laid  down  then,  however;  and  Mrs. 
Armadale  loved  to  take  the  book  in  her  hands, 
upon  her  lap,  while  her  granddaughter,  leaning 
over  it,  read  to  her.  They  two  had  it  alone;  no 
other  meddled  with  them.  Charity  was  always 
in  the  kitchen  at  this  time,  and  Madge  often  in 
her  dairy,  and  neither  of  them  inclined  to  share 
in  the  service  which  Lois  always  loved  dearly  to 
render.  They  two,  the  old  and  the  young,  would 
sit  wholly  engrossed  with  their  reading  and  their 
talk,  unconscious  of  what  was  going  on  around 
them ;  even  while  Charity  and  Madge  were  bust 
ling  in  and  out  with  the  preparations  for  breakfast. 


308  NOBODY. 

Nothing  of  the  bustle  reached  Mrs.  Armadale  or 
Lois,  whose  faces  at  such  times  had  a  high  and 
sweet  and  withdrawn  look,  very  lovely  to  behold. 
The  hard  features  and  wrinkled  lines  of  the  one 
face  made  more  noticeable  the  soft  bloom  and  deli 
cate  moulding  of  the  other,  while  the  contrast  en 
hanced  the  evident  oneness  of  spirit  and  interest 
which  filled  them  both.  When  they  were  called 
to  breakfast  and  moved  to  the  table,  then  there 
was  a  difference.  Both  indeed  shewed  a  subdued 
sweet  gravity;  but  Mrs.  Armadale  was  wont  also 
to  be  very  silent  and  withdrawn  into  herself,  or 
busied  with  inner  comrnunings;  while  Lois  was 
ready  with  speech  or  action  for  everybody's  oc 
casions  and  full  of  gentle  ministry.  Mrs.  Barclay 
used  to  study  them  both,  and  be  wonderingly  busy 
with  the  contemplation. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    BREAKFAST    TABLE. 

IT  was  Christmas  eve.  Lois  had  done  her  morn 
ing  work  by -the  lamplight,  and  was  putting 
the  dining  room,  or  sitting  room  rather,  in  order; 
when  Madge  joined  her  and  began  to  help. 

"Is  the  other  room  ready ? " 

"  All  ready,"  said  Lois. 

"Are  you  doing  that  elm  tree?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  do  you  get  along  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  manage  it  yet,  to  my  satisfaction;  but 
I  will.  0  Madge,  isn't  it  too  delicious  ?  " 

"  What  ?  the  drawing  ?     Isn't  it ! !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  the  drawing  only.  Everything. 
I  am  getting  hold  of  French,  and  it's  delightful. 
Bat  the  books!  0  Madge,  the  books!  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  been  a  chicken  in  his  shell  until  now.  and 
as  if  I  were  just  getting  my  eyes  open  to  seo 
what  the  world  is  like." 

"What  is  it  like?"  asked  Madge  laughing. 
"My  eyes  are  shut  yet,  I  supoose,  for  /  haven't 

found  out.     You  can  tell  me." 
(309) 


310  NOBODY. 

"  Eyes  that  are  open  cannot  help  eyes  that  are 
shut.  Besides,  mine  are  only  getting  open." 

"What  do  they  see?     Come,  Lois?     Tell." 

Lois  stood  still,  resting  on  her  broom  handle. 

"The  world  seems  to  me  an  immense  battle 
place,  where  wrong  and  right  have  been  strug 
gling;  always  struggling.  And  sometimes  the 
wrong  seems  to  cover  the  whole  earth,  like  a  flood, 
and  there  is  nothing  but  confusion  and  horror; 
and  then  sometimes  the  floods  part  and  one  sees 
a  little  bit  of  firm  ground,  where  grass  and  flowers 
might  grow,  if  they  had  a  chance.  And  in  those 
spots  there  is  generally  some  great,  grand  man, 
who  has  fought  back  the  flood  of  wrong  and  made 
a  clearing." 

"Well  I  do  not  understand  all  that  one  bit!" 
said  Madge. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  said  Lois  laughing,  "  I  do 
not  understand  it  very  clearly  myself.  I  cannot 
blame  you.  But  it  is  very  curious,  Madge,  that 
the  ancient  Persians  had  just  that  idea  of  the  world 
being  a  battle  place,  and  that  wrong  and  right 
were  fighting;  or  rather,  that  the  Spirit  of  good 
and  the  Spirit  of  evil  were  struggling.  Ormuzd 
was  their  name  for  the  good  Spirit,  and  Ahriman 
the  other.  It  is  very  strange,  for  that  is  just  the 
truth." 

"Then  why  is  it  strange?"  said  downright 
Madge. 

"  Because  they  were  heathen ;  they  did  not  know 
the  Bible." 


A  BREAKFAST  TABLE.  311 

"Is  that  what  the  Bible  says?  I  didn't  know 
it." 

"  Why  Madge,  yes  you  did.  You  know  who  is 
called  the  'prince  of  this  world';  and  you  know 
Jesus  *  was  manifested  that  he  might  destroy  the 
works  of  the  devil';  and  you  know  'he  shall  reign 
till  he  has  put  all  enemies  under  his  feet.'  But 
how  should  those  old  Persians  know  so  much,  with 
out  knowing  more?  I'll  tell  you,  Madge!  You 
know,  Enoch  knew?" — 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Yes,  you  do!  Enoch  knew.  And  of  course 
they  all  knew  when  they  came  out  of  the  ark — " 

"Who?  the  Persians?" 

Lois  broke  out  into  a  laugh,  and  began  to  move 
her  broom  again. 

"  What  have  you  been  reading,  to  put  all  this 
into  your  head  ?  " 

The  broom  stopped. 

"Ancient  history,  and  modern;  parts  here  and 
there,  in  different  books.  Mrs.  Barclay  shewed 
me  where ;  and  then  we  have  talked — " 

Lois  began  now  to  sweep  vigorously. 

"  Lois,  is  she  like  the  people  you  used  to  see  in 
New  York?  I  mean,  were  they  all  like  her?  " 

"Not  all  so  nice." 

"But  like  her?" 

"Not  in  everything.  No,  they  were  not  most 
of  them  so  clever,  and  most  of  them  did  not  know 
so  much,  and  were  not  so  accomplished." 

"  But  they  were  like  her  in  other  things?" 


312  NOBODY. 

"No,"  said  Lois  standing  still;  "she  is  a  head 
and  shoulders  above  most  of  the  women  I  saw; 
but  they  were  of  her  sort,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean." 

"That  is  what  I  mean.  She  is  not  a  bit  like 
people  here.  We  must  seem  very  stupid  to  her, 
Lois." 

"  Shampuashuh  people  are  not  stupid." 

"Well,  aunt  Anne  isn't  stupid;  but  she  is  not 
like  Mrs.  Barclay.  And  she  don't  want  us  to  be 
like  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"No  danger!" — said  Lois,  very  busy  now  at 
her  work. 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  be  like  Mrs.  Barclay  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  So  would  I." 

"  Well,  we  can,  in  the  things  that  are  most  valu 
able,"  said  Lois,  standing  still  again  for  a  moment 
to  look  at  her  sister. 

"  0  yes,  books —  But  I  would  like  to  be  graceful 
like  Mrs.  Barclay.  You  would  call  that  not  valua 
ble;  but  I  care  more  for  it  than  for  all  the  rest. 
Her  beautiful  manners." 

"  She  lias  beautiful  manners,"  said  Lois.  "  I  do 
not  think  manners  can  be  taught.  They  cannot 
be  imitated." 

"Why  not?" 

"  0  they  wouldn't  be  natural.  And  what  suits 
one  might  not  suit  another.  A  very  handsome 
nose  of  somebody  else,  might  not  be  good  on  my 
face.  But  they  would  not  be  natural," 


A  BREAKFAST  TABLE.  313 

"  You  need  not  wish  for  anybody's  nose  but  your 
own,"  said  Madge.  "  That  will  do,  and  so  will 
mine,  I'm  thankful!  But  what  makes  her  look  so 
unhappy,  Lois?" 

"  She  does  look  unhappy." 

"  She  looks  as  if  she  had  lost  all  her  friends." 

"She  has  got  one,  here,"  said  Lois,  sweeping 
away. 

"  But  what  good  can  you  do  her  ? " 

"  Nothing.  It  isn't  likely  that  she  will  ever  even 
know  the  fact." 

"  She's  doing  a  good  deal  for  us." 

A  little  later  it  was,  that  Mrs.  Barclay  camo 
down  to  her  room.  She  found  it,  as  always,  in 
bright  order;  the  fire  shine  casting  red  reflections 
into  every  corner,  and  making  pleasant  contras-r, 
with  the  grey  without.  For  it  was  cloudy  and 
windy  weather,  and  wintry  neutral  tints  were  ail 
that  could  be  seen  abroad;  the  clouds  swept  aloii*>; 
grey  overhead,  and  the  earth  lay  brown  and  bav« 
below.  But  in  Mrs.  Barclay's  room  was  the  cheer 
iest  play  of  light  and  colour;  here  it  touched  tlio 
rich  leather  bindings  of  books,  there  the  black  and 
white  of  an  engraving,  here  it  was  caught  in  tin'. 
folds  of  the  chintz  curtains  which  were  ruddy  and 
purple  in  hue,  and  again  it  warmed  up  the  old- 
fashioned  furniture  and  lost  itself  in  a  brown  tablo 
cover.  Mrs.  Barclay's  eye  loved  harmonies,  and  it, 
found  them  even  in  this  country  furnished  room  at 
Shampuashuh.  Though  indeed  the  piles  of  books 
came  from  afar,  and  so  did  the  large  portfolio  of 


314  NOBODY. 

engravings,  and  Mrs.  Barclay's  desk  was  a  foreign 
er.  She  sat  in  her  comfortable  chair  before  the 
fire  and  read  her  letters,  which  Lois  had  laid  ready 
for  her;  and  then  she  was  called  to  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Barclay  admired  her  surroundings  here 
too,  as  she  had  often  done  before.  The  old  lady, 
ungain  as  her  figure  and  uncomely  as  her  face 
were,  had  yet  a  dignity  in  both;  the  dignity  of 
a  strong  and  true  character,  which  with  abundant 
self-respect  had  not,  and  never  had,  any  anxious 
concern  about  the  opinion  of  any  human  being. 
Whoever  feels  himself  responsible  to  the  one  Great 
Kuler  alone,  and  does  feel  that  responsibility,  will 
be  both  worthy  of  respect  and  sure  to  have  it  in 
his  relations  with  his  fellows.  Such  tribute  Mrs. 
Barclay  paid  Mrs.  Armadale.  Her  eye  passed  on 
and  admired  Madge,  who  was  very  handsome  in 
her  neat,  smart  home  dress;  and  rested  on  Lois 
finally  with  absolute  contentment.  Lois  was  in 
a  nut-brown  stun0  dress,  with  a  white  knitted 
shawl  bound  round  her  shoulders  in  the  way  chil 
dren  sometimes  have,  the  ends  crossed-  on  the 
breast  and  tied  at  the  back  of  the  waist.  Brown 
and  white  was  her  whole  figure,  except  the  rosy 
flush  on  cheeks  and  lips;  the  masses  of  fluffy  hair 
were  reddish  brown,  a  shade  lighter  than  her  dress. 
At  Charity  Mrs.  Barclay  did  not  look  much,  un 
less  for  curiosity;  she  was  a  study  of  a  different 
sort. 

"  What  delicious  rolls ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 
"Are  these  your  work,  Miss  Charity?" 


A  BREAKFAST  TABLE.  315 

"  I  can  make  as  good,  I  guess,"  said  that  lady ; 
"but  these  aint  mine.  Lois  made  'em." 

"  Lois !  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  I  did  not  know 
that  this  was  one  of  your  accomplishments." 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  an  accomplishment,"  said 
Charity. 

"  Certainly.     What  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"  I  thought,  an  accomplishment  was  something 
that  one  could  accomplish  that  was  no  use." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  such  an  opinion  of  ac 
complishments." 

"  Well,  aint  it  true  ?  Lois,  maybe  Mrs.  Barclay 
don't  care  for  sausages.  There's  cold  meat." 

"  Your  sausages  are  excellent.  I  like  such  sau 
sage  very  much." 

"  I  always  think  sausages  aint  sausages  if  they 
aint  stuffed.  Aunt  Anne  won't  have  the  plague 
of  it;  but  I  say,  if  a  thing's  worth  doing  at  all, 
it's  worth  doing  the  best  way;  and  there's  no 
comparison  in  my  mind." 

"  So  you  judge  everything  by  its  utility." 

"  Don't  everybody,  that's  got  any  sense  ?  " 

"And  therefore,  you  condemn  accomplishments?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  the  use.  0  if  folks  have  got 
nothing  else  to  do,  and  just  want  to  make  a  flare- 
up — but  for  us  in  Shampuashuh,  what's  the  good 
of  them?  For  Lois  and  Madge,  now;  I  don't 
make  it  out." 

"You  forget,  your  sisters  may  marry,  and  go 
somewhere  else  to  live;  and  then — " 

"  I  don't  know  what  Madge'll  do ;  but  Lois  aint 


316  NOBODY. 

goin'  to  marry  anybody  but  a  real  godly  man,  and 
what  use'll  her  accomplishments  be  to  her  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  just  as  much  use,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  smiling.  "Why  not?  The  more  education 
a  woman  has,  the  more  fit  she  is  to  content  a  man 
of  education,  anywhere." 

"  Where's  she  to  get  a  man  of  education  ?  "  said 
Charity.  "  What  you  mean  by  that*  don't  grow  in 
these  parts.  We  aint  savages  exactly,  but  there 
aint  many  accomplishments  scattered  through  the 
village.  Unless,  as  you  say,  bread-makin's  one. 
We  do  know  how  to  make  bread,  and  cake,  with 
anybody;  Lois  said  she  didn't  see  a  bit  o'  real  good 
cake  all  the  while  she  was  in  Gotham ;  and  we  can 
cure  hams,  and  we  understand  horses  and  cows, 
and  butter  and  cheese,  and  farming  of  course,  and 
that;  but  you  won't  find  your  man  of  education 
here,  or  Lois  won't." 

"  She  may  find  him  somewhere  else,"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay,  looking  at  Charity  over  her  coffee  cup. 

"  Then  he  won't  be  the  right  kind,"  persisted 
Charity;  while  Lois  laughed  and  begged  they 
would  not  discuss  the  question  of  her  possible 
"finds";  but  Mrs.  Barclay  asked,  "how  not  the 
right  kind?" 

"  Well,  every  place  has  its  sort,"  said  Charity. 
• — "Our  sort  is  religious.  I  don't  know  whether 
we're  any  better  than  other  folks,  but  we're  relig 
ious;  and  your  men  of  accomplishments  aint,  be 
they?" 

"Depends  on  what  you  mean  by  religious." 


A  BREAKFAST  TABLE.  317 

"Well,  I  mean  godly.  Lois  won't  ever  marry 
any  but  a  godly  man." 

"  I  hope  not !  "  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

" SJie  won't,"  said  Charity;  "but  you  had  better 
talk  to  Madge,  mother.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  her. 
Lois  is  safe." 

"  '  The  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away, ' ' 
said  the  old  lady,  with  a  gravity  which  was  yet 
sweet ; — "  *  but  the  word  of  the  Lord  endureth  for 
ever.'" 

Mrs.  Barclay  was  now  silent.  This  morning, 
contrary  to  her  usual  wont,  she  kept  her  place  at 
the  table,  though  the  meal  was  finished.  She  was 
curious  to  see  the  ways  of  the  household,  and  felt 
herself  familiar  enough  with  the  family  to  venture 
to  stay.  Charity  began  to  gather  her  cups. 

"  Did  you  give  aunt  Anne's  invitation  ?  Hand 
along  the  plates,  Madge,  and  carry  your  butter 
away.  We've  been  for  ever  eating  breakfast." 

4i  Talking  " — said  Mrs.  Barclay  with  a  smile. 

"  Talking's  all  very  well,  but  I  think  one  thing 
at  a  time  is  enough.  It  is  as  much  as  most  folks 
can  attend  to.  Lois,  do  give  me  the  plates;  and 
give  your  invitation." 

"  Aunt  Anne  wants  us  all  to  come  and  take  tea 
with  her  to-night,"  said  Lois;  "and  she  sent  her 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Barclay  and  a  message  that 
she  would  be  very  glad  to  see  her  with  the  rest 
of  us." 

"  I  am  much  obliged,  and  shall  be  very  happy 
to  go." 


318  NOBODY. 

"  'Taint  a  party,"  said  Charity,  who  was  receiring 
plates  and  knives  and  forks  from  Lois's  hand  and 
making  them  elaborately  ready  for  washing;  while 
Madge  went  back  and  forth  clearing  the  table  of 
the  remains  of  the  meal.  "  It's  nothin'  but  to  go 
and  take  our  tea  there  instead  of  here.  We  save 
the  trouble  of  gettin'  it  ready,  and  have  the  trouble 
of  going;  that's  our  side;  and  what  aunt  Anne  has 
for  her  side  she  knows  best  herself.  I  guess  she's 
proud  of  her  sweetmeats." 

Mrs.  Barclay  smiled  again.  "It  seems  parties 
are  mucbuthe  same  thing,  wherever  they  are  given," 
she  said. 

"  This  aint  a  party,"  repeated  Charity.  Madge 
had  now  brought  a  tub  of  hot  water,  and  the 
washing  up  of  the  breakfast  dishes  was  under 
taken  by  Lois  and  Charity  with  a  despatch  and 
neatness  and  celerity  which  the  looker-on  had 
never  seen  equalled. 

"  Parties  do  not  seem  to  be  Shampuashuh  fash 
ion,"  she  remarked.  "I  have  not  heard  of  any 
since  I  have  been  here." 

"No,"  said  Charity.     "  We  have  more  sense." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  shews  sense,"  remarked 
Lois,  carrying  off  a  pile  of  clean  hot  plates  to  the 
cupboard. 

"  What's  the  use  of  'em  ?  "  said  the  elder  sister. 

"  Cultivation  of  friendly  feeling — "  suggested 
Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  If  folks  aint  friendly  already,  the  less  they  see 
of  one  another  the  better  they'll  agree,"  said  Charity. 


A  BREAKFAST  TABLE.  319 

"Miss  Charity,  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  love 
your  fellow  creatures,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  much 
amused. 

"As  well  as  they  love  me,  I  guess,"  said 
Charity. 

"Mrs.  Armadale,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  appealing 
to  the  old  lady  who  sat  in  her  corner  knitting 
as  usual, — "do  not  these  opinions  require  some 
correction  ?  " 

"Charity  speaks  what  she  thinks,"  said  Mrs. 
Armadale,  scratching  behind  her  ear  with  the  point 
of  her  needle,  as  she  was  very  apt  to  do  when 
called  upon. 

"But  that  is  not  the  right  way  to  think,  is 
it?" 

"  It's  the  natural  way,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  It 
is  only  the  fruit  of  the  Spirit  that  is  4love,  joy, 
peace.'  'Taint  natural,  to  love  what  you  don't 
like." 

"What  you  don't  like!  no,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay; 
"  that  is  a  pitch  of  love  I  never  dreamed  of." 

" '  If  ye  love  them  that  love  you,  what  thank 
have  ye ? '"  said  the  old  lady  quietly. 

"Mother's  off  now,"  said  Charity;  "out  of  any 
body's  understanding.  One  would  think  I  was 
more  unnatural  than  the  rest  of  folks ! " 

"She  said  you  were  more  natural,  thats  all," 
said  Lois  with  a  sly  smile. 

The  talk  ceased.  Mrs.  Barclay  looked  on  for  a 
few  minutes  more,  marvelling  to  see  the  quick 
dexterity  with  which  everything  was  done  by  the 


320  NOBODY. 

two  girls;  until  the  dishes  were  put  away,  the 
tcib  and  towels  were  gone,  the  table  was  covered 
A\  ith  its  brown  cloth,  a  few  crumbs  were  brushed 
from  the  carpet;  and  Charity  disappeared  in  one 
direction  and  Lois  in  another.  Mrs.  Barclay  her- 
f  withdrew  to  her  room  and  her  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    CARPENTER. 

THE  day  was  a  more  than  commonly  busy  one, 
so  that  the  usual  hours  of  lessons  in  Mrs. 
Barclay's  room  did  not  come  off.  It  was  not  till 
late  in  the  afternoon  that  Lois  went  to  her  friend, 
to  tell  her  that  Mrs.  Marx  would  send  her  little 
carriage  in  about  an  hour  to  fetch  her  mother,  and 
that  Mrs.  Barclay  also  might  ride  if  she  would. 
Mrs.  Barclay  was  sitting  in  her  easy  chair  before 
the  fire,  doing  nothing,  and  on  receipt  of  this  in 
formation  turned  a  very  shadowed  face  towards 
the  bringer  of  it. 

"What  will  you  say  to  me,  if  after  all  your 
aunt's  kindness  in  asking  me,  I  do  not  go  ?  " 

"Not  go?  You  are  not  well?"  inquired  Lois 
anxiously. 

"  I  am  quite  well — too  well !  " 

"  But  something  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing  new." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Barclay,  can  I  help  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  you  can.     I  am  tired,  Lois!" 

(321) 


322  NOBODY. 

"  Tired !  0  that  is  spending  so  much  time  giv 
ing  lessons  to  Madge  and  me!  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  It  is  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay, 
stretching  out  her  hand  to  take  one  of  Lois,  which 
she  retained  in  her  own.  "  If  anything  would  take 
away  this  tired  feeling,  it  is  just  that,  Lois.  Noth 
ing  refreshes  me  so  much,  or  does  me  so  much 
good." 

"  Then  what  tires  you,  dear  Mrs.  Barclay  ?  " 

Lois's  face  shewed  unaffected  anxiety.  •  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  gave  the  hand  she  held  a  little  squeeze. 

44  It  is  nothing  new,  my  child,"  she  said  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  I  am  tired  of  life." 

Looking  at  the  girl,  as  she  spoke,  she  saw  how 
unable  her  listener's  mind  was  to  comprehend  her. 
Lois  looked  puzzled. 

44  You  do  not  know  what  I  mean  ?  "  she  said. 

44  Hardly— " 

44 1  hope  you  never  will.  It  is  a  miserable  feeling. 
It  is  like  what  I  can  fancy  a  withered  autumn  leaf 
feeling,  if  it  were  a  sentient  and  intelligent  thing ; 
— of  no  use  to  the  branch  which  holds  it, — fresh 
ness  and  power  gone, — no  reason  for  existence  left, 
— its  work  all  done.  Only  I  never  did  any  work,  and 
was  never  of  any  particular  use." 

44  0  you  cannot  mean  that ! "  cried  Lois,  much 
troubled  and  perplexed. 

44 1  keep  going  over  to-day  that  little  hymn  you 
shewed  me,  that  was  found  under  the  dead  soldier's 
pillow.  The  words  run  in  my  head,  and  wake 
echoes. 


THE  CARPENTER.  323 

'"'I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 

With  little  thought  or  care 
Whether  the  waking  find 
Me  here,  or  there. 

"  '  A  bowing,  burdened  head —  ' " 

But  here  the  speaker  broke  off  abruptly,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  Lois  saw,  or  guessed,  that  she  could 
not  go  on. 

"Never  mind  that  verse,"  she  said,  beginning 
again ;  "  it  is  the  next.  Do  you  remember  ? — 

"  « My  good  right  hand  forgets 

Its  cunning  now. 
To  march  the  weary  march, 
I  know  not  how. 

"  '  I  am  not  eager,  bold, 

Nor  brave ;  all  that  is  past. 
I  am  ready  not  to  do, 
At  last,  at  last !— ' 

"  I  am  too  young  to  feel  so,"  Mrs.  Barclay  went 
on,  after  a  pause  which  Lois  did  not  break;  "but 
that  is  how  I  feel  to-day." 

"I  do  not  think  one  need — or  ought — at  any 
age,"  Lois  said  gently ;  but  her  words  were  hardly 
regarded. 

"Do  you  hear  that  wind?"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 
"  It  has  been  singing  and  sighing  in  the  chimney 
in  that  way  all  the  afternoon." 

"It  is  Christmas,"  said  Lois.  "Yes,  it  often  sings 
so,  and  I  like  it.  I  like  it  especially  at  Christmas 
time." 


324  NOBODY. 

"  It  carries  me  back — years.  It  takes  me  to  my 
old  home,  when  I  was  a  child.  I  think  it  must 
have  sighed  so  round  the  house  then.  It  takes  me 
to  a  time  when  I  was  in  my  fresh  young  life  and 
vigour — the  unfolding  leaf — when  life  was  careless 
and  cloudless;  and  I  have  a  kind  of  homesickness 
to-night  for  my  father  and  mother. — Of  the  days 
hirice  that  time,  I  dare  not  think." 

Lois  saw  that  rare  tears  had  gathered  in  her 
friend's  eyes,  slowly  and  few,  as  they  come  to  peo 
ple  with  whom  hope  is  a  lost  friend;  and  her  heart 
was  filled  with  a  great  pang  of  sympathy.  Yet 
slie  did  not  know  how  to  speak.  She  recalled  the 
verse  of  the  soldier's  hymn  which  Mrs.  Barclay  had 
passed  over — 

"A bowing,  burdened  head, 

That  only  asks  to  rest 
Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast." 

She  thought  she  knew  what  the  grief  was ;  but 
how  to  touch  it !  She  sat  still  and  silent,  and  per 
haps  even  so  spoke  her  sympathy  better  than 
any  words  could  have  done  it.  And  perhaps  Mrs. 
Barclay  felt  it  so,  for  she  presently  went  on 
tifter  a  manner  which  was  not  like  her  usual 
reserve. 

u  0  that  wind !  0  that  wind !  It  sweeps  away 
all  that  has  been  between,  and  puts  home  and  my 
cliildhood  before  me.  But  it  makes  me  homesick, 
Lois!" 


THE  CARPENTER.  325 

"Cannot  you  go  on  with  the  hymn,  dear  Mrs. 
Barclay  ?  You  know  how  it  goes, — 

*' '  My  half  day's  work  is  done;  \ 

And  this  is  all  my  part — 
I  give  a  patient  God 
My  patient  heart.' " 

"  What  does  He  want  with  it  ?  "  said  the  weary 
woman  beside  her. 

"  What  ?  0  it  is  the  very  thing  he  wants  of  us, 
and  of  you ;  the  one  thing  he  cares  about !  That 
we  would  love  him." 

"I  have  not  done  a  half  day's  work,"  said  the 
other;  "and  my  heart  is  not  patient.  It  is  only 
tired,  and  dead." 

"It  is  not  that"  said  Lois.  "How  very,  very 
good  you  have  been  to  Madge  and  me." 

"You  have  been  good  to  me.  And  as  your  grand 
mother  quoted  this  morning,  no  thanks  are  due 
when  we  only  love  those  who  love  us.  My  heart 
does  not  seem  to  be  alive,  Lois.  You  had  better 
go  to  your  aunt's  without  me,  dear.  I  should  not 
be  good  company." 

"But  I  cannot  leave  you  so!"  exclaimed  Lois; 
and  she  left  her  seat  and  sank  upon  her  knees  at 
her  friend's  side,  still  clasping  the  hand  that  had 
taken  hers.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Barclay,  there  is  help." 

"  If  you  could  give  it,  there  would  be,  you  pretty 
creature  ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  with  her  other  hand 
pushing  the  beautiful  masses  of  red  brown  hair 
right  and  left  from  Lois's  brow. 


326  NOBODY. 

"  But  there  is  One  who  can  give  it,  who  is  stronger 
than  I,  and  loves  you  better." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Because  he  has  promised.  'Come  unto  me,  all 
ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest.' " 

Mrs.  Barclay  said  nothing,  but  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  It  is  a  promise,"  Lois  repeated.  "  It  is  a  PROM 
ISE.  It  is  the  King's  promise ;  and  he  never  breaks 
his  word." 

"How  do  you  know,  my  child?  You  have  never 
been  where  I  am." 

"No — "  said  Lois,  "not  there.  I  have  never  felt 
just  so." 

"I  have  had  all  that  life  could  give.  I  have  had 
it,  and  knew  I  had  it.  And  it  is  all  gone.  There 
is  nothing  left." 

"There  is  this  left,"  said  Lois  eagerly,  "which 
you  have  not  tried." 

"What?" 

"The  promise  of  Christ." 

"  My  dear,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talk 
ing  of.  Life  is  in  its  spring  with  you." 

"  But  I  know  the  King's  promise,"  said  Lois. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  tried  it." 

"  But  you  have  never  had  any  occasion  to  try  it, 
you  heart-sound  creature ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  with 
again  a  caressing,  admiring  touch  of  Lois's  brow. 

"  0  but  indeed  I  have.     Not  in  need  like  yours 


THE  CARPENTER.  327 

— I  have  never  touched  that — I  never  felt  like 
that ;  but  in  other  need,  as  great  and  as  terrible. 
And  I  know,  and  everybody  else  who  has  ever 
tried  knows,  that  the  Lord  keeps  his  word." 

"How  have  you  tried?"  Mrs.  Barclay  asked 
abstractedly. 

"  I  needed  the  forgiveness  of  sin,"  said  Lois,  let 
ting  her  voice  fall  a  little,  — "  and  deliverance 
from  it." 

«  You!—'  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  I  was  as  unhappy  as  anybody  could  be,  till  I 
got  it." 

"When  was  that?" 

"  Four  years  ago." 

"Are  you  much  different  now  from  what  you 
were  before  ?  " 

"Entirely." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  you  in  need  of  forgiveness. 
"What  had  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  had  done  nothing  whatever  that  I  ought  to 
have  done.  I  loved  only  myself, — I  mean  first, — 
and  lived  only  to  myself  and  my  own  pleasure,  and 
did  my  own  will." 

"  Whose  will  do  you  now  ?  your  grandmother's." 

"Not  grandmother's  first.  I  do  God's  will,  as 
far  as  I  know  it." 

"And  therefore  you  think  you  are  forgiven?'' 

"  I  don't  think,  I  know,"  said  Lois  with  a  quick 
breath.  "  And  it  is  not  '  therefore '  at  all ;  it  is  be 
cause  I  am  covered,  or  my  sin  is,  with  the  blood  of 
Christ.  And  I  love  him ;  and  he  makes  me  happy." 


328  NOBODY. 

"It  is  easy  to  make  you  happy,  dear.  To  me 
there  is  nothing  left  in  the  world,  nor  the  possi 
bility  of  anything.  That  wind  is  singing  a  dirge 
in  my  ears ;  and  it  sweeps  over  a  desert.  A  desert 
where  nothing  green  will  grow  any  more  !  " 

The  words  were  spoken  very  calmly;  there  was 
no  emotion  visible  that  either  threatened  or  prom 
ised  tears;  a  dull,  matter-of-fact,  perfectly  clear  and 
quiet  utterance,  that  almost  broke  Lois's  heart.  The 
water  that  was  denied  to  the  other  eyes  sprang  to 
her  own. 

"  It  was  in  the  wilderness  that  the  people  were 
fed  with  manna,"  she  said,  with  a  great  gush  of 
feeling  in  both  heart  and  voice.  "It  was  when 
they  were  starving  and  had  no  food,  just  then,  that 
they  got  the  bread  from  heaven." 

"Manna  does  not  fall  now-a-days,"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  0  yes,  it  does !  There  is  your  mistake,  because 
you  do  not  know.  It  does  come.  Look  here, 
Mrs.  Barclay — " 

She  sprang  up,  went  for  a  Bible  which  lay  on 
one  of  the  tables,  and  dropping  on  her  knees 
again  by  Mrs.  Barclay's  side  shewed  her  an  open 
page. 

"Look  here — 'I  am  the  bread  of  life;  he  that 
cometh  to  me  shall  never  hunger;  and  he  that  be- 
lieveth  on  me  shall  never  thirst.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
bread  which  cometh  down  from  heaven,  that  a 
man  may  eat  thereof  and  not  die.'  Not  die  of 
weariness,  nor  of  anything  else." 


THE  CARPENTER.  329 

Mrs.  Barclay  did  look  with  a  little  curiosity  at 
the  words  Lois  held  before  her,  but  then  she  put 
down  the  book  and  took  the  girl  in  her  arms,  hold 
ing  her  close  and  laying  her  own  head  on  Lois's 
shoulder.  Whether  the  words  had  moved  her, 
Lois  could  not  tell,  or  whether  it  was  the  power 
of  her  own  affection  and  sympathy;  Mrs.  Barclay 
did  not  speak,  and  Lois  did  not  dare  add  another 
word.  They  were  still,  wrapped  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  one  or  two  of  Lois's  tears  wet  the  other 
woman's  cheek ;  and  there  was  no  movement  made 
by  either  of  them;  until  the  door  was  suddenly 
opened  and  they  sprang  apart. 

"Here's  Mr.  Midgin,"  announced  the  voice  of 
Miss  Charity.  "Shall  he  come  in?  or  aint  there 
time  ?  Of  all  things,  why  can't  folks  choose  con 
venient  times  for  doin'  what  they  have  to  do !  It 
passes  me.  It's  because  it's  a  sinful  world,  I  sup 
pose.  But  what  shall  I  tell  him  ?  to  go  about  his 
business,  and  come  New  Year's,  or  next  Fourth 
of  July?" 

"  You  do  not  want  to  see  him  now  ?  "  said  Lois 
hastily.  But  Mrs.  Barclay  roused  herself  and 
begged  that  he  might  come  in.  "It  is  the  car 
penter,  I  suppose,"  said  she. 

Mr.  Midgin  was  a  tall,  loose-jointed,  large-fea 
tured  man,  with  an  undecided  cast  of  countenance, 
and  slow  movements ;  which  fitted  oddly  to  his  big 
frame  and  powerful  muscles.  He  wore  his  work 
ing  suit,  which  hung  about  him  in  a  flabby  way, 
and  entered  Mrs.  Barclay's  room  with  his  hat  on. 


330  NOBODY. 

Hat  and  all,  his  head  made  a  little  jerk  of  saluta 
tion  to  the  lady. 

"Good  arternoon!"  said  he.  "Sun'thin'  I  kin 
do  here?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Midgin — I  left  word  for  you  three 
days  ago,"  said  Lois. 

"Jest  so.  I  heerd.  And  here  I  be.  Wall,  I 
never  see  a  room  with  so  many  books  in  it !  Lois, 
you  must  be  like  a  cow  in  clover,  if  you're  half  as 
fond  of  'em  as  I  be." 

"  You  are  fond  of  reading,  Mr.  Midgin  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  Wall,  I  think  so.  But  what's  in  'em  all  ?  "  He 
came  a  step  further  into  the  room  and  picked  up  a 
volume  from  the  table.  Mrs.  Barclay  watched  him. 
He  opened  the  book,  and  stood  still,  eagerly  scan 
ning  the  page,  for  a  minute  or  two. 

" '  Lamps  of  Architectur'" — said  he,  looking  then 
at  the  title  page ; — "  that's  beyond  me.  The  only 
lamps  of  architectur  that  /  ever  see,  in  Shampu- 
ashuh  anyway,  is  them  that  stands  up  at  the  depot, 
by  the  railroad;  but  here's  ' truth,'  and  'sacrifice,' 
and  I  don'  know  what  all ;  *  hope '  and  *  love,'  I  ex 
pect.  Wall,  them's  good  lamps  to  light  up  any- 
thin'  by;  only  I  don't  make  out  whatever  they  kin 
have  to  do  with  buildm's."  He  picked  up  an 
other  volume. 

"What's  this?"  said  he.  "'Taint  my  native 
tongue.  What  do  ye  call  it,  Lois?" 

"That  is  French,  Mr.  Midgin." 

"That's  French,  eh?"  said  he  turning  over  the 


THE  CARPENTER.  331 

leaves.  "  I  want  to  know  !  Don't  look  as  though 
there  was  any  sense  in  it.  What  is  it  about,  now?" 

"  It  is  a  story  of  a  man  who  was  king  of  Home 
a  great  while  ago." 

"  King  of  Kome !  What  was  his  name  ?  Not 
Romulus  and  Remus,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  he  came  just  after  Romulus." 

"Did,  hey?  Then  you  s'pose  there  ever  was 
sich  a  man  as  Romulus?" 

*' Probably,"  Mrs.  Barclay  now  said.  "When  a 
story  gets  form  and  lives,  there  is  generally  some 
thing  of  fact  to  serve  as  foundation  for  it." 

"You  think  that?"  said  the  carpenter.  "Wall, 
I  kin  tell  you  stories  that  had  form  enough,  and 
life  enough  in  'em,  to  do  a  good  deal  o'  work;  and 
that  yet  grew  up  out  o'  nothin'  but  smoke.  There 
was  Governor  Denver;  he  was  governor  o'  this  state 
for  quite  a  spell ;  and  he  was  a  Shampuashuh  man, 
so  we  all  knew  him  and  thought  lots  o'  him.  He 
was  sot  against  drinking.  Mebbe  you  don't  think 
there's  no  harm  in  wine  and  the  like  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  think  there  was 
any  harm  in  it  certainly,  unless  taken  immoderately." 

"Ay,  but  how're  you  goin'  to  fix  what's  mod 
erately?  there's  the  pinch.  What's  a  gallon  for 
me's  only  a  pint  for  you.  Wall — Governor  Denver 
didn't  believe  in  havin'  nothin'  to  do  with  the  blamed 
stuff;  and  he  had  taken  the  pledge  agin  it,  and  he 
was  known  for  an  out  and  out  Temperance  man ; 
tee-total,  was  the  word  with  him.  Wall,  his  daugh 
ter  was  married,  over  here  at  New  Haven ;  and  they 


332  NOBODY. 

bad  a  grand  weddin',  and  a  good  many  o'  the  folks 
was  like  you,  they  thought  there  was  no  harm  in 
it,  if  one  kept  inside  the  pint,  you  know;  and  there 
was  enough  for  everybody  to  hev  had  his  gallon. 
And  then  they  said  the  Governor  had  taken  his 
glass  to  his  daughter's  health,  or  something  like 
that.  Wall — all  Shampuashuh  was  talkin'  about 
it,  and  Gov.  Denver's  friends  was  hangin'  their 
heads,  and  didn't  know  what  to  say ;  for  what 
ever  a  man  thinks, — and  thoughts  is  free, — he's 
bound  to  stand  to  what  he  says,  and  particularly 
if  he  has  taken  his  oath  upon  it.  So  Gov.  Denver's 
friends  was  as  worried  as  a  steam  vessel  in  a  fog, 
when  she  can't  hear  the  'larm  bells;  and  one  said 
this  and  'tother  said  that.  And  at  last  I  couldn't 
stand  it  no  longer;  and  I  writ  him  a  letter — to  the 
Governor ;  and  says  I,  '  Governor,'  says  I,  *  did  you 
drink  wine  at  your  daughter  Lottie's  weddin'  at 
New  Haven  last  month  ? '  And  if  you'll  believe 
me,  he  writ  me  back,  'Jonathan  Midgin,  Esq. 
Dear  sir,  I  was  in  New  York  the  day  you  men 
tion,  shakin'  with  chills  and  fever,  and  never  got 
to  Lottie's  weddin'  at  all.' — What  do  you  think 
o'  that?  Overturns  your  theory  a  leetle,  don't  it? 
Warn't  no  sort  o'  foundation  for  that  story;  and 
yet,  it  did  go  round,  and  folks  said  it  was  so." 

"  It  is  a  strong  story  for  your  side,  Mr.  Midgin, 
undoubtedly." 

"Aint  it!  La!  bless  you,  there's  nothin'  you 
kin  be  sartain  of  in  this  world.  I  don't  believe 
in  no  Romulus  and  his  goat.  Half  o'  all  these 


THE  CARPENTER.  333 

books,  now,  I  have  no  doubt,  tells  lies;  and  the 
other  half,  you  don'  know  which  'tis." 

"I  cannot  throw  them  away  however,  just  yet; 
and  so,  Mr.  Midgin,  I  want  some  shelves  to  keep 
them  off  the  floor." 

"  I  should  say  you  jest  did !  Where'll  you  put 
'em?" 

"  The  shelves  ?  All  along  that  side  of  the  room, 
I  think.  And  about  six  feet  high." 

"That'll  hold  'em,"  said  Mr.  Midgin,  as  he  ap 
plied  his  measuring  rule.  "Jest  shelves?  or  do 
you  want  a  bookcase  fixed  up  all  reg'lar  ? " 

"Just  shelves.  That  is  the  prettiest  bookcase, 
to  my  thinking." 

"  That's  as  folks  looks  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Midgin,  who 
apparently  was  of  a  different  opinion.  "What'll 
they  be?  Mahogany,  or  walnut,  or  cherry,  or 
maple,  or  pine?  You  kin  stain  'em  any  colour. 
One  thing's  handsome,  and  another  thing's  cheap ; 
and  I  don'  know  yet  whether  you  want  'em  cheap 
or  handsome." 

"  Want  'em  both,  Mr.  Midgin,"  said  Lois. 

"  H'm  ! —  Well — maybe  there's  folks  that  knows 
how  to  combine  both  advantages — but  I'm  afeard 
I  aint  one  of  'em.  Nothin'  that's  cheap's  handsome, 
to  my  way  o1  thinkin'.  You  don't  make  much  count 
o'  cheap  things  here  anyhow,"  said  he,  surveying 
the  room.  And  then  he  began  his  measurements, 
going  round  the  sides  of  the  apartment  to  apply 
his  rule  to  all  the  plain  spaces ;  and  Mrs.  Barclay 
noticed  how  tenderly  he  handled  the  books  which 


334  NOBODY. 

he  had  to  move  out  of  his  way.  Now  and  then 
he  stopped  to  open  one,  and  stood  a  minute  or 
two  peering  into  it.  All  this  while  his  hat  was 
on. 

"  Should  like  to  read  that,"  he  remarked,  with  a 
volume  of  Macaulay's  Essays  in  his  hands.  "That's 
well  written.  But  a -man  can't  read  all  the  world," 
he  went  on,  as  he  laid  it  out  of  his  hands  again. 
"'Much  study  is  a  weariness  to  the  flesh.'  Arter 
all,  I  don't  suppose  a  j&an'd  be  no  wiser  if  he'd  read 
all  you've  got  here.  The  biggest  fool  I  ever  knowed, 
was  the  man  that  had  read  the  most." 

"How  did  he  shew  his  folly?"  Mrs.  Barclay 
asked. 

"  Wall,  it's  a  story.  Lois  knows.  He  was  dread 
fully  sot  on  a  little  grandchild  he  had ;  his  chil'n 
was  all  dead,  and  he  had  jest  this  one  left;  she 
was  a  little  girl.  And  he  never  left  her  out  o' 
his  sight,  nor  she  him;  until  one  day  he  had  to 
go  to  Boston  for  some  business;  and  he  couldn't 
take  her;  and  he  said  he  knowed  some  harm'd 
come.  Do  you  believe  in  pre-sentiments." 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  How  should  a  man  have  pre-sentiments  o'  what's 
comin'?" 

"  I  cannot  answer  that." 

"  No,  nor  nobody  else.  It  aint  reason.  I  believe 
the  pre-sentiments  makes  the  things  come." 

"  Was  that  the  case  in  this  instance  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  don't  see  how  it  could.  When  he  come 
back  from  Boston,  the  little  girl  was  dead;  but  she 


THE  CARPENTER.  335 

was  as  well  as  ever  when  he  went  away.  Aint  that 
curious  ?  " 

"Certainly;  if  it  is  true." 

"  I'm  tellin'  you  iiothin'  but  the  truth.  The  hull 
town  knows  it.  'Taint  no  secret.  'Twas  old  Mr. 
Roderick,  you  know,  Lois ;  lived  up  yonder  on  the 
road  to  the  ferry.  And  after  he  come  back  from 
the  funeral  he  shut  himself  up  in  the  room  where 
his  grandchild  had  been — and  nobody  ever  see  him 
no  more  from  that  day,  'thout  'twas  the  folks  in  the 
house;  and  there  warn't  many  o'  them;  but  he 
never  went  out.  An'  he  never  went  out  for  seven 
years ;  and  at  the  end  o'  seven  years  he  had  to — 
there  was  money  in  it — and  folks  that  won't  mind 
nothin'  else,  they  minds  Mammon,  you  know;  so  he 
went  out.  An'  as  soon  as  he  was  out  o'  the  house, 
his  women  folks,  they  made  a  rush  for  his  room, 
fur  to  clean  it;  for,  if  you'll  believe  me,  it  hadn't 
been  cleaned  all  those  years;  and  I  expect  'twas  in 
a  condition;  but  the  women  likes  nothin'  better; 
and  as  they  opened  some  door  or  other,  of  a  closet  or 
that,  out  runs  a  little  white  mouse,  and  it  run  clear 
off;  they  couldn't  catch  it  any  way,  and  they  tried 
every  way.  It  was  gone,  and  they  were  scared,  for 
they  knowed  the  old  gentleman's  ways.  It  wasn't 
a  closet  either  it  was  in,  but  some  piece  o'  furniture ; 
I'm  blessed  ef  I  can  remember  what  they  called  it. 
The  mouse  was  gone,  and  the  womenfolks  was 
scared;  and  to  be  sure,  when  Mr.  Roderick  come 
home  he  went  as  straight  as  a  line  to  that  there 
door  where  the  mouse  was;  and  they  say  he  made 


336  NOBODY. 

a  terrible  rumpus  when  he  couldn't  find  it;  but 
arter  that  the  spell  was  broke,  like;  and  he  lived 
pretty  much  as  other  folks.  Did  you  say  six  feet?" 

"  That  will  be  high  enough.  And  you  may  leave 
a  space  of  eight  or  ten  feet  on  that  side,  from  win 
dow  to  window." 

"Thoutany?" 

"Yes." 

"That'll  be  kind  o'  lop  sided,  won't  it?  I  allays 
likes  to  see  things  samely.  What'll  you  do  with 
all  that  space  of  emptiness?  It'll  look  awful  bare." 

"  I  will  put  something  else  there.  What  do  you 
suppose  the  white  mouse  had  to  do  with  your  old 
gentleman's  seclusion  ?  " 

"Seclusion?  Livin' shut  up,  you  mean?  Why, 
don't  ye  see,  he  believed  the  mouse  was  the  sperrit 
o'  the  child — leastways,  the  sperrit  o'  the  child  was 
in  it.  You  see,  when  he  got  back  from  the  funeral 
the  first  thing  his  eyes  lit  upon  was  that  ere  white 
mouse;  and  it  was  white,  you  see,  and  that  aint  a 
common  colour  for  a  mouse ;  and  it  got  into  his  head, 
and  couldn't  get  out,  that  that  was  Ella's  sperrit. 
It  mought  ha'  ben,  for  all  I  can  say ;  but  arter  that 
day,  it  was  gone." 

"  You  think  the  child's  spirit  might  have  been  in 
the  mouse? 

"  Who  knows?  I  never  say  nothin'  I  don't  know, 
nor  deny  nothin'  I  du  know;  aint  that  a  good 
principle  ?  " 

"But  you  know  better  than  that,  Mr.  Midgin," 
said  Lois. 


THE  CARPENTER.  337 

"  Wall,  I  don't !  Maybe  you  do,  Lois ;  but  accord- 
in'  to  my  lights  I  don't  know. — You'll  hev  'em  wal 
nut,  won't  you?  that'll  look  more  like  furniture." 

"Are  you  coming?  The  wagon's  here,  Lois," 
said  Madge,  opening  the  door.  "  Is  Mrs.  Barclay 
ready  ? " 

"Will  be  in  two  minutes,"  replied  that  lady. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Midgin,  let  them  be  walnut;  and  good 
evening !  Yes,  Lois,  I  am  quite  roused  up  now,  and 
I  will  go  with  you.  I  will  walk,  dear;  I  prefer  it." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ROAST  PIG. 

MRS.  BARCLAY  seemed  to  have  entirely  regained 
her  usual  composure  and  even  her  usual  spir 
its,  which  indeed  were  never  high.  She  said  she 
enjoyed  the  walk,  which  she  and  Lois  took  in  com 
pany,  Madge  having  gone  with  her  grandmother 
and  Charity  in  Mrs.  Marx's  wagon.  The  winter 
evening  was  falling  grey,  and  the  grey  was  growing 
dark;  and  there  was  something  in  the  dusky  still 
ness  and  soft,  half-defined  lines  of  the  landscape, 
with  the  sharp,  crisp  air  which  suited  the  mood  of 
both  ladies.  The  stars  were  not  visible  yet;  the 
western  horizon  had  still  a  glow  left  from  the  sun 
set;  and  houses  and  trees  stood  like  dark  solemn 
ghosts  along  the  way  before  the  end  of  the  walk 
was  reached.  They  talked  hardly  at  all,  but  Mrs. 
Barclay  said  when  she  got  to  Mrs.  Marx's  that  the 
walk  had  been  delightful. 

At  Mrs.  Marx's  all  was  in  holiday  perfection  of 
order;  though  that  was  the  normal  condition  of 
things,  indeed,  where  that  lady  ruled.  The  paint 
of  the  floors  was  yellow  and  shining;  the  carpets 


ROAST  PIG.  339 

were  thick  and  bright;  the  table  was  set  with  great 
care ;  the  great  chimney  in  the  upper  kitchen  where 
the  supper  was  prepared,  was  magnificent  with  its 
blazing  logs.  So  was  a  lesser  fireplace  in  the  best 
parlour,  ivhere  the  guests  were  first  received;  but 
supper  was  ready,  and  they  adjourned  to  the  next 
room.  There  the  table  invited  them  most  hospita 
bly,  loaded  with  dainties  such  as  people  in  the  coun 
try  can  get  at  Christmas  time.  One  item  of  the 
entertainment  not  usual  at  Christmas  time  was  a 
roast  pig;  its  brown  and  glossy  back  making  a  very 
conspicuous  object  at  one  side  of  the  board. 

"  I  thought  I'd  surprise  you  all,"  remarked  the 
satisfied  hostess;  for  she  knew  the  pig  was  done 
to  a  turn ;  "  and  anything  you  don't  expect  tastes 
twice  as  good.  I  knew  ma'  liked  pig  better'n  any 
thing  ;  and  I  think  myself  it's  about  the  top  sheaf. 
I  suppose  nothin'  can  be  a  surprise  to  Mrs. 
Barclay." 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  so  ?  "  asked  that  lady. 

"  I  thought  you'd  seen  everything  there  was  in 
the  world,  and  a  little  more." 

"  Never  saw  a  roast  pig  before  in  my  life.  But 
I  have  read  of  them." 

"Head  of  them!"  exclaimed  their  hostess.  "In 
a  cook  book,  likely  ?  " 

"  Alas,  I  never  read  a  cook  book ! " 

"  No  more  didn't  I ;  but  you'll  excuse  me,  I  didn't 
believe  you  carried  it  all  in  your  head,  like  we 
folks." 

"  I  have  not  a  bit  of  it  in  my  head,  if  you  mean 


340  NOBODY. 

the  art  of  cookery.  I  have  a  profound  respect  for 
it;  but  I  know  nothing  about  it  whatever." 

"Well,  you're  right  to  have  a  respect  for  it. 
Uncle  Tim,  do  you  just  give  Mrs.  Barclay  some  of 
the  best  of  that  pig,  and  let  us  see  how  jshe  likes 
it.  And  the  stuffing,  uncle  Tim,  and  the  gravy; 
and  plenty  of  the  crackle.  Mother,  it's  done  just 
as  you  used  to  do  it." 

Mrs.  Barclay  meanwhile  surveyed  the  company. 
Mrs.  Armadale  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table ;  placid 
and  pleasant  as  always,  though  to  Mrs.  Barclay 
her  aspect  had  somewhat  of  the  severe.  She  did 
not  smile  much,  yet  she  looked  kindly  over  her 
assembled  children.  Uncle  Tim  was  her  brother; 
Uncle  Tim  Hotchkiss.  He  had  the  so  frequent 
New  England  mingling  of  the  shrewd  and  the 
benevolent  in  his  face;  and  he  was  a  much  more 
jolly  personage  than  his  sister;  younger  than  she, 
too,  and  still  vigorous.  Unlike  her  also,  he  was  a 
handsome  man;  had  been  very  handsome  in  his 
young  days;  and  as  Mrs.  Barclay's  eye  roved  over 
the  table,  she  thought  few  could  shew  a  better 
assemblage  of  comeliness  than  was  gathered  round 
this  one.  Madge  was  strikingly  handsome  in  her 
well-fitting  black  dress;  Lois  made  a  very  plain 
brown  stuff  seem  resplendent;  she  had  a  little 
fleecy  white  woollen  shawl  wound  about  her  shoul 
ders,  and  Mrs.  Barclay  could  hardly  keep  her  eyes 
away  from  the  girl.  And  if  the  other  members 
of  the  party  were  less  beautiful  in  feature,  they 
had  every  one  of  them  in  a  high  degree  the  stamp 


ROAST  PIG.  341 

of  intellect  and  of  character.  Mrs.  Barclay  specu 
lated  upon  the  strange  society  in  which  she  found 
herself;  upon  the  odd  significance  of  her  being 
there ;  and  on  the  possible  outcome,  weighty  and 
incalculable,  of  the  connection  of  the  two  things. 
So  intently  that  she  almost  forgot  what  she  was 
eating,  and  she  started  at  Mrs.  Marx's  sudden  ques 
tion — "Well,  how  do  you  like  it?  Charity,  give 
Mrs.  Barclay  some  pickles — what  she  likes;  there's 
sweet  pickle,  that's  peaches;  and  sharp  pickle, 
that's  red  cabbage ;  and  I  don'  know  which  of  'em 
she  likes  best;  and  give  her  some  apple — have  you 
got  any  apple  sauce,  Mrs.  Barclay  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  everything;  and  everything  is 
delicious." 

"That's  how  things  are  gen'ally,  in  Mrs.  Marx's 
hands,"  remarked  uncle  Tim.  "There  aint  her 
beat  for  sweets  and  sours  in  all  the  country." 

"Mrs.  Barclay's  accustomed  to  another  sort  o* 
doings,"  said  their  hostess.  "  I  didn't  know  but 
she  mightn't  like  our  ways." 

"  I  like  them  very  much,  I  assure  you." 

"  There  aint  no  better  ways  than  Shampuashuh 
ways,"  said  uncle  Tim.  "  If  there  be,  I'd  like  to 
see  'em  once.  Lois,  you  never  see  a  handsomer 
dinner'n  this  in  New  York,  did  you  ?  Come  now, 
and  tell.  Did  you?" 

"  I  never  saw  a  dinner  where  things  were  better 
of  their  kind,  uncle  Tim." 

Mrs.  Barclay  smiled  to  herself.  That  will  do, 
she  thought. 


342  NOBODY. 

"Is  that  an  answer?"  said  uncle  Tim.  "I'll  be 
shot  if  I  know." 

"  It  is  as  good  an  answer  as  I  can  give,"  returned 
Lois  smiling. 

"  Of  course  she  has  seen  handsomer !  "  said  Mrs. 
Marx.  "If  you  talk  of  elegance,  we  don't  pretend 
to  it  in  Shampuashuh.  Be  thankful  if  what  you 
have  got  is  good,  uncle  Tim ;  and  leave  the  rest." 

"  Well,  I  don't  understand,"  responded  uncle 
Tim.  "Why  shouldn't  Shampuashuh  be  elegant, 
I  don't  see?  Aint  this  elegant  enough  for  any 
body?" 

"  'Taint  elegant  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Marx.  "  If  this 
was  in  one  o'  the  elegant  places,  there'd  be  a  bunch 
o'  flowers  in  the  pig's  mouth,  and  a  ring  on  his 
tail." 

At  the  face  which  uncle  Tim  made  at  this,  Lois's 
gravity  gave  way ;  and  a  perfect  echo  of  laughter 
went  round  the  table. 

"  Well,  I  don'  know  what  you're  all  laughin'  at 
nor  what  you  mean,"  said  the  object  of  their  merri 
ment;  "but  I  should  uncommonly  like  to  know." 

"  Tell  him,  Lois,"  cried  Madge,  "  what  a  dinner 
in  New  York  is  like.  You  never  did  tell  him." 

"  Well,  I'm  ready  to  hear,"  said  the  old  gentle 
man.  "I  thought  a  dinner  was  a  dinner;  but  I'm 
willin'  to  learn." 

"  Tell  him,  Lois !  "  Madge  repeated. 

"  It  would  be  very  stupid  for  Mrs.  Barclay,"  Lois 
objected. 

"  On  the  contrary !  "  said  that  lady.     "  I  should 


ROAST  PIG.  343 

very  much  like  to  hear  your  description.  It  is 
interesting  to  hear  what  is  familiar  to  us  described 
by  one  to  whom  it  is  novel.  Go  on,  Lois." 

"  I'll  tell  you  of  one  dinner,  uncle  Tim,"  said 
Lois  after  a  moment  of  consideration.  "All  dinners 
in  New  York,  you  must  understand,  are  not  like 
this;  this  was  a  grand  dinner." 

"  Christmas  eve  ?  "  suggested  uncle  Tim. 

"No.  I  was  not  there  at  Christmas;  this  was 
just  a  party.  There  were  twelve  at  table. 

"In  the  first  place,  there  was  an  oval  plate  of 
looking  glass,  as  long  as  this  table — not  quite  so 
broad — that  took  up  the  whole  centre  of  the  table." 
Here  Lois  was  interrupted. 

"  Looking  glass !  "  cried  uncle  Tim. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  ridiculous?" 
said  Charity. 

"  Looking  glass  to  set  the  hot  dishes  on  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Marx,  to  whom  this  story  seemed  new. 

"No;  not  to  set  anything  on.  It  took  up  the 
whole  centre  of  the  table.  Round  the  edge  of 
this  looking  glass,  all  round,  was  a  border  or  little 
fence  of  solid  silver,  about  six  or  eight  inches 
high;  of  beautiful  wrought  openwork;  and  just 
within  this  silver  fence,  at  intervals,  stood  most 
exquisite  little  white  marble  statues,  about  a  foot 
and  a  half  high.  There  must  have1  been  a  dozen 
of  them;  and  anything  more  beautiful  than  the 
whole  thing  was,  you  cannot  imagine." 

"  I  should  think  they'd  have  been  awfully  in  the 
way,"  remarked  Charity. 


344  NOBODY. 

"Not  at  all;  there  was  room  enough  all  round 
outside  for  the  plates  and  glasses." 

"  The  looking  glass,  I  suppose,  was  for  the  pretty 
ladies  to  see  themselves  in  !  " 

"  Quite  mistaken,  uncle  Tim ;  one  could  not  see 
the  reflection  of  oneself;  only  bits  of  one's  opposite 
neighbours ;  little  flashes  of  colour  here  and  there ; 
and  the  reflection  of  the  statuettes  on  the  further 
side;  it  was  prettier  than  ever  you  can  think." 

"  I  reckon  it  must  ha'  been ;  but  I  don't  see  the 
use  of  it,"  said  uncle  Tim. 

"  That  wasn't  all,"  Lois  went  on.  "  Everybody 
had  his  own  salt-cellar." 

"  Table  must  ha'  been  full,  I  should  say." 

"  No,  it  was  not  full  at  all ;  there  was  plenty  of 
room  for  everything,  and  that  allowed  every 
pretty  thing  to  be  seen.  And  those  salt-cellars 
were  a  study.  They  were  delicious  little  silver 
figures — every  one  different  from  the  others — and 
each  little  figure  presented  the  salt  in  something. 
Mine  was  a  little  girl,  with  her  apron  all  gathered 
up,  as  if  to  hold  nuts  or  apples,  and  the  salt  was  in 
her  apron.  The  one  next  to  her  was  a  market- 
woman  with  a  flat  basket  on  her  head,  and  the 
salt  was  in  the  basket.  Another  was  a  man  bow 
ing,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand ;  the  salt  was  in  the 
hat.  I  could  not  see  them  all,  but  each  one  seem 
ed  prettier  than  the  other.  One  was  a  man  stand 
ing  by  a  well,  with  a  bucket  drawn  up,  but  full  of 
salt,  riot  water.  A  very  pretty  one  was  a  milkman 
with  a  pail." 


ROAST  PIG.  345 

Uncle  Tim  was  now  reduced  to  silence,  but 
Charity  remarked  that  she  could  not  understand 
where  the  dishes  were — the  dinner. 

"  It  was  somewhere  else.  It  was  not  on  the  ta 
ble  at  all.  The  waiters  brought  the  things  round. 
There  were  six  waiters,  handsomely  dressed  in 
black,  and  with  white  silk  gloves." 

"White  silk  gloves!"  echoed  Charity.  "Well, 
I  do  think  the  way  some  people  live  is  just  a  sin 
and  a  shame  !  " 

"  How  did  you  know  what  there  was  for  dinner?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Marx  now.  "  I  shouldn't  like  to  make 
my  dinner  of  boiled  beef,  if  there  was  partridges 
comin'.  And  when  there's  plum  puddin'  I  always 
like  to  know  it  beforehand." 

"We  knew  everything  beforehand,  aunt  Anne. 
There  were  beautifully  painted  little  pieces  of  white 
silk  on  everybody's  plate,  with  all  the  dishes  named ; 
only  many,  most,  of  them  were  French  names,  and 
I  was  none  the  wiser  for  them." 

"Can't  they  call  good  victuals  by  English 
names?"  asked  uncle  Tim.  "What's  the  sense  o' 
that?  How  was  anybody  to  know  what  he  was 
eatin'?" 

"  0  they  all  knew,"  said  Lois.     "  Except  me." 

"  I'll  bet  you  were  the  only  sensible  one  o'  the 
lot,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Then  at  every  plate  there  was  a  beautiful  cut 
glass  bottle,  something  like  a  decanter,  with  ice 
water,  and  over  the  mouth  of  it  a  tumbler  to 
match.  Besides  that,  there  were  at  each  plate 


346  NOBODY. 

five  or  six  other  goblets  or  glasses,  of  different 
colours." 

"  What  colours  ?  "  demanded  Charity. 

"  Yellow, — and  dark  red,  and  green,  and  white." 

"  What  were  they  all  for  ?  "  asked  uncle  Tim. 

"  Wine;  different  sorts  of  wine." 

"  Different  sorts  o'  wine  !  How  many  sorts  did 
they  have,  at  one  dinner  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  do  not  know.  A  great 
many." 

"  Did  you  drink  any,  Lois  ?  " 

"  No,  aunt  Anne." 

"  I  suppose  they  thought  you  were  a  real  coun 
try  girl,  because  you  didn't  ?  " 

"  Nobody  thought  anything  about  it.  The  ser 
vants  brought  the  wine;  everybody  did  just  as  he 
pleased  about  taking  it." 

"  What  did  you  have  to  eat,  Lois,  with  so  much 
to  drink  ?  "  asked  her  elder  sister. 

"  More  than  I  can  tell,  Charity.  There  must 
have  been  a  dozen  large  dishes,  at  each  end  of  the 
table,  besides  the  .soup  and  the  fish ;  and  no  end  of 
smaller  dishes." 

"  For  a  dozen  people !  "  cried  Charity. 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  I  don't  know  anythin'," 
said  Mr.  Hotchkiss, — "but  I  always  du  hate  to 
see  a  whole  lot  o'  things  before  me  more'n  I  can 
eat!" 

"  It's  downright  wicked  waste,  that's  what  I  call 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Marx;  "but  I  s'pose  that's  because  I 
don't  know  anythin'." 


ROAST  PIG.  347 

"  And  you  like  that  sort  o'  way  better  'n  this  'n?" 
inquired  uncle  Tim  of  Lois. 

"I  said  no  more  than  that  it  was  prettier,  uncle 
Tim." 

"Butd^ye?" 

Lois's  eye  met  involuntarily  Mrs.  Barclay's  for 
an  instant,  and  she  smiled. 

"  Uncle  Tim,  I  think  there  is  something  to  be 
said  on  both  sides." 

"  There  aint  no  sense  on  that  side." 

"There  is  some  prettiness;  and  I  like  prettiness." 

"Prettiness  won't  butter  nobody's  bread.  Mo 
ther,  you've  let  Lois  go  once  too  often  among  those 
city  folks.  She's  nigh  about  sp'iled  for  a  Shamp- 
uashuh  man,  now." 

"  Perhaps  a  Shampuashuh  man  will  not  get  her," 
said  Mrs.  Barclay  mischievously. 

"Who  else  is  to  get  her?"  cried  Mrs.  Marx. 
"We're  all  o'  one  sort  here;  and  there's  hardly 
a  man  but  what's  respectable,  and  very  few  that 
aint  more  or  less  well-to-do ;  but  we  all  work  and 
mean  to  work,  and  we  mostly  all  know  our  own 
mind.  I  do  despise  a  man  who  don't  do  nothin', 
and  who  asks  other  folks  what  he's  to  think ! " 

"That  sort  of  person  is  not  held  in  very  high 
esteem  in  any  society,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay 
courteously;  though  she  was  much  amused,  and 
was  willing  for  her  own  reasons  that  the  talk 
should  go  a  little  further.  Therefore  she  spoke. 

"  Well,  idleness  breeds  'em,"  said  the  other  lady. 

"  But  who  respects  them  ?  " 


348  NOBODY. 

"  The  world'll  respect  anybody,  even  a  man  that 
goes  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  if  he  only  can 
fetch  'em  out  full  o'  money.  There  was  such  a 
feller  hangin'  round  Appledore  last  summer.  My ! 
didn't  he  try  my  patience !  " 

"  Appledore  ?  "  said  Lois  pricking  up  her  ears. 

"Yes;  there  was  a  lot  of  'em." 

"  People  who  did  not  know  their  own  minds  ?  " 
Mrs.  Barclay  asked,  purposely  and  curiously. 

"  Well,  no,  I  won't  say  that  of  all  of  'em.  There 
was  some  of  'em  knew  their  own  minds  a'most 
too  well;  but  he  warn't  one.  He  come  to  me  once 
to  help  him  out ;  and  I  filled  his  pipe  for  him,  and 
sent  him  to  smoke  it." 

"  Aunt  Anne  !  " — said  Lois,  drawing  up  her  pret 
ty  figure  with  a  most  unwonted  assumption  of 
astonished  dignity.  Both  the  dignity  and  the 
astonishment  drew  all  eyes  upon  her.  She  was 
looking  at  Mrs.  Marx  with  eyes  full  of  startled 
displeasure.  Mrs.  Marx  was  intrenched  behind 
a  whole  army  of  coffee  and  tea  pots  and  pitchers, 
and  answered  coolly. 

"Yes.  I  did.  What  is  it  to  you?  Did  he 
come  to  you  for  help  too  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  whom  you  are  talking  of." 

"  Oh  !  " — said  Mrs.  Marx.  "  I  thought  you  did. 
Before  I'd  have  you  marry  such  a  soft  feller  as 
that,  I'd— I'd  shoot  him  !  " 

There  was  some  laughter,  but  Lois  did  not  join 
in  it,  and  with  heightened  colour  was  attending 
very  busily  to  her  supper. 


ROAST  PIG.  349 

"  Was  the  poor  man  looking  that  way  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Barclay. 

"He  was  lookin'  two  ways,"  said  Mrs.  Marx; 
"  and  when  a  man's  doin'  that,  he  don't  fetch  up 
nowhere,  you  bet.  I'd  like  to  know  what  becomes 
of  him  !  They  were  all  of  the  sort  Lois  has  been 
tellin'  of;  thought  a  deal  o'  'prettiness.'  I  do  think, 
the  way  some  people  live,  is  a  way  to  shame  the 
flies;  and  I  don't  know  nothin'  in  creation  more 
useless  than  they  be !  " 

Mrs.  Marx  could  speak  better  English,  but  the 
truth  was,  when  she  got  much  excited  she  forgot 
her  grammar. 

"  But  at  a  watering  place,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bar 
clay,  "  you  do  not  expect  people  to  shew  their  use 
ful  side.  They  are  out  for  play  and  amusement." 

"I  can  play  too,"  said  the  hostess;  "but  my  play 
always  has  some  meaning  to  it.  Did  I  tell  you, 
mother,  what  that  lady  was  doing  V  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  speaking  of  a  gentleman," 
said  quiet  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  Well,  there  was  a  lady  too;  and  she  was  doin' 
a  piece  o'  work.  It  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  grey 
satin ;  thick  and  handsome  as  you  ever  see ;  and  she 
was  sewin'  gold  thread  upon  it  with  fine  gold- 
coloured  silk;  fine  gold  thread;  and  it  went  one 
way  straight  and  another  way  round,  curling  and 
crinkling,  like  nothin'  on  earth  but  a  spider's  web; 
all  over  the  grey  -satin.  I  watched  her  a  while, 
and  then,  says  I,  '  what  are  you  doin',  if  you 
please  ?  I've  been  lookin'  at  you,  and  I  can't  make 


350  NOBODY. 

out.'  'No,'  says  she,  'I  s'pose  not.  It's  a  cover 
for  a  bellows.'  'For  a  tuhat?'  says  I.  'For  a 
bellows,'  says  she;  'a  bellows,  to  blow  the  fire  with. 
Don't  you  know  what  they  are  ?  '  '  Yes,'  says  I ; 
'I've  seen  a  fire  bellows  before  now;  but  in  our 
part  o'  the  country  we  don't  cover  'em  with  satin.' 
'  No,'  says  she,  '  I  suppose  not.'  '  I  would  just 
like  to  ask  one  more  question,'  says  I.  '  Well,  you 
may,'  says  she;  'what  is  it?'  'I  would  just  like 
to  know,'  says  I,  '  what  the  fire  is  made  of  that 
you  blow  with  a  satin  and  gold  bellows  ? '  And 
she  laughed  a  little.  ''Cause,'  says  I,  'it  ought 
to  be  somethin'  that  won't  soil  a  kid  glove  and  that 
won't  give  out  no  sparks  nor  smoke.'  '  0,'  says 
she,  '  nobody  really  blows  the  fire ;  only  the  bellows 
have  come  into  fashion,  along  with  the  fire  dogs, 
wherever  people  have  an  open  fireplace  and  a  wood 
fire.'  Well,  what  she  meant  by  fire  dogs  I  couldn't 
guess;  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't  expose  any  more  o' 
my  ignorance.  Now,  mother,  how  would  you  like 
to  have  Lois  in  a  house  like  that? — where  people 
don't  know  any  better  what  to  do  with  their  im 
mortal  lives  than  to  make  satin  covers  for  bellows 
they  don't  want  to  blow  the  fire  with !  and  dish 
up  dinner  enough  for  twelve  people,  to  feed  a 
hundred?" 

"  Lois  will  never  be  in  a  house  like  that,"  re 
sponded  the  old  lady  contentedly. 

"Then  it's  just  as  well  if  you  keep  her  away 
from  the  places  where  they  make  so  much  ofpretti- 
ness,  I  can  tell  you.  Lois  is  human." 


ROAST  PIG.  351 

"Lois  is  Christian,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale;  "and 
she  knows  her  duty." 

"Well,  it's  heart-breakin'  work,  to  know  one's 
duty,  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Marx. 

"  But  .you  do  not  think,  I  hope,  that  one  is  a 
pattern  for  all?"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "There  are 
exceptions;  it  is  not  everybody  in  the  great  world 
that  lives  to  no  purpose." 

"  If  that's  what  you  call  the  great  world,  /call  it 
mighty  small,  then.  If  I  didn't  know  anything 
better  to  do  with  myself  than  to  work  sprangles  o' 
gold  on  a  satin  cover  that  warn't  to  cover  nothin', 
I'd  go  down  to  Fairhaven  and  hire  myself  out  to 
open  oysters!  and  think  I  made  by  the  bargain. 
Anyhow  I'd  respect  myself  better." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the  great 
world,"  said  uncle  Tim.  "  Be  there  two  on  'em  ?  a 
big  and  a  little  ?  " 

"Don't  you  see,  all  Shampuashuh  would  go  in 
one  o'  those  houses  Lois  was  tellin'  about?  and  if  it 
got  there,  I  expect  they  wouldn't  give  it  house 
room." 

"  The  worlds  are  not  so  different  as  you  think," 
Mrs.  Barclay  went  on  courteously.  "Human  na 
ture  is  the  same  everywhere." 

"Well,  I  guess  likely,"  responded  Mrs.  Marx. 
"  Mother,  if  you've  done,  we'll  go  into  the  other 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SCRUPLES. 

THE  next  day  was  Christmas;  but  in  the  country 
of  Shampuashuh  Christmas,  though  a  holiday, 
was  not  held  in  so  high  regard  as  it  receives  in 
many  other  quarters  of  the  earth.  There  was  no 
service  in  the  church;  and  after  dinner  Lois  came 
as  usual  to  draw  in  Mrs.  Barclay's  room. 

"  I  did  not  understand  some  of  your  aunt's  talk 
last  evening,"  Mrs.  Barclay  remarked  after  a  while. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  Lois. 

"  Did  you  ?  " 

"  0  yes.    I  understand  aunt  Anne." 

"  Does  she  really  think  that  all  the  people  who 
like  pretty  things,  lead  useless  lives  ?  " 

"  She  does  not  care  so  much  about  pretty  things 
as  I  do,"  said  Lois  slightly. 

"  But  does  she  think  all  who  belong  to  the  *  great 
world '  are  evil  ?  given  up  to  wickedness  ?  " 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,"  Lois  answered  smiling; 
ubut  naturally  aunt  Anne  does  not  understand  any 
world  but  this  of  Shampuashuh." 
(352) 


SCRUPLES.  353 

"  I  understood  her  to  assume  that  under  no  cir 
cumstances  could  you  marry  one  of  the  great  world 
she  was  talking  of?  " 

"Well,"  said  Lois,  "I  suppose  she  thinks  that 
one  of  them  would  not  be  a  Christian." 

"You  mean,  an  Enthusiast." 

"  No,"  said  Lois ;  "  but  I  mean,  and  she  means, 
one  who  is  in  heart  a  true  servant  of  Christ.  He 
might,  or  he  might  not,  be  enthusiastic." 

"  And  would  you  marry  no  one  who  was  not  a 
Christian,  as  you  understand  the  word  ?  " 

"  The  Bible  forbids  it,"  said  Lois,  her  colour  ris 
ing  a  little. 

"The  Bible  forbids  it?  I  have  not  studied  the 
Bible  like  you;  but  I  have  heard  it  read  from  the 
pulpit  all  my  life;  and  I  never  heard,  either  from 
the  pulpit  or  out  of  it,  such  an  idea,  as  that  one 
who  is  a  Christian  may  not  marry  one  who  is 
not." 

"  I  can  shew  you  the  command — in  more  places 
than  one,"  said  Lois. 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

Lois  left  her  drawing  and  fetched  a  Bible. 

"It  is  forbidden  in  the  Old  Testament  and  in 
the  New,"  she  said;  "but  I  will  shew  you  a  place 
in  the  New.  Here  it  is — in  the  second  Epistle  to 
the  Corinthians — '  Be  not  unequally  yoked  to 
gether  with  unbelievers ; '  and  it  goes  on  to  give 
the  reason." 

"Unbelievers!  But  those,  in  that  day,  were 
heathen." 


354  NOBODY. 

"Yes,"  said  Lois  simply,  going  on  with  her 
drawing. 

"  There  are  no  heathen  now, — not  here." 

"  I  suppose  that  makes  no  difference.  It  is  the 
party  which  will  not  obey  and  serve  Christ ;  and 
which  is  working  against  him.  In  that  day  they 
worshipped  idols  of  wood  and  stone ;  now  they  wor 
ship  a  different  sort.  They  do  not  worship  him\ 
and  there  are  but  two  parties." 

"No  neutrals?" 

"  No.     The  Bible  says  not." 

"But  what  is  being  'yoked  together'?  what 
do  you  understand  is  forbidden  by  that?  Mar- 

*  r\  «» 

riage  r 

"  Any  connection,  I  suppose,"  said  Lois  looking 
up,  "in  which  two  people  are  forced  to  pull  to 
gether.  You  know  what  a  '  yoke '  is  ?  " 

u  And  you  can  smile  at  that,  you  wicked  girl  ?  " 

Lois  laughed  now.  "  Why  not  ?  "  she  said.  "  I 
have  not  much  fancy  for  putting  my  head  in  a 
yoke  at  all ;  but  a  yoke  where  the  two  pull  differ 
ent  ways,  must  be  very  miserable  !  " 

"You  forget;  you  might  draw  somebody  else 
to  go  the  right  way." 

"  That  would  depend  upon  who  was  the  strong 
est." 

"True,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "But  my  dear  Lois! 
you  do  not  suppose  that  a  man  cannot  belong  to 
the  world  and  yet  be  what  you  call  a  Christian  ? 
That  would  be  very  uncharitable." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  uncharitable,"  said  Lois. 


SCRUPLES.  355 

"  Mrs.  Barclay,  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  mark  the 
foliage  of  different  sorts  of  trees !  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  making  a  very  good  begin 
ning. — Lois,  do  you  know,  you  are  fitting  to  be  the 
wife  of  just  one  of  that  world  you  are  condemning 
— cultivated,  polished,  full  of  accomplishments  and 
graces,  and  fine  and  refined  tastes." 

"Then  he  would  be  very  dangerous,"  said  Lois, 
"  if  he  were  not  a  Christian.  He  might  have  all 
that,  and  yet  be  a  Christian  too." 

"  Suppose  he  were  not;  would  you  refuse  him ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  should,"  said  Lois.  But  her  questioner 
noticed  that  this  answer  was  soberly  given. 

That  evening  she  wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"  I  am  enjoying  the  most  delightful  rest,"  the 
letter  said,  "  that  I  have  known  for  a  very  long 
time ;  yet  I  have  a  doubt  whether  I  ought  to  con 
fess  it ;  whether  I  ought  not  to  declare  myself  tired 
of  Shampuashuh,  and  throw  up  my  cards.  I  feel 
a  little  like  an  honest  swindler,  using  your  money, 
not  on  false  pretences,  but  on  a  foregone  case.  I 
should  never  get  tired  of  the  place  or  the  people. 
Every  one  of  them,  indeed  almost  every  one  that  I 
see,  is  a  character;  and  here,  where  there  is  less 
varnish,  the  grain  of  the  wood  shews  more  plainly. 
I  have  had  a  most  original  carpenter  here  to  meas 
ure  for  my  book-shelves,  only  yesterday;  for  my 
room  is  running  over  with  books.  Not  only  ev 
erybody  is  a  character,  but  nearly  everybody  has 
a  good  mixture  of  what  is  admirable  in  his  com 
position;  and  as  for  these  two  girls — well,  I  am 


356  NOBODY. 

even  more  in  love  than  you  are,  Philip.  The  elder 
is  the  handsomer,  perhaps;  she  is  very  handsome; 
but  your  favourite  is  my  favourite.  Lois  is  lovely. 
There  is  a  strange,  fresh,  simple,  undefinable  charm 
about  the  girl,  that  makes  one  her  captive.  Even 
me,  a  woman.  She  wins  upon  me  daily  with  her 
sweet  unconscious  ways.  But  nevertheless,  I  am 
uneasy  when  I  remember  what  I  am  here  for,  and 
what  you  are  expecting.  I  fear  I  am  acting  the 
part  of  an  innocent  swindler,  as  I  said;  little  better. 
"  In  one  way  there  is  no  disappointment  to  be 
looked  for.  These  girls  are  both  gifted  with  a 
great  capacity  and  aptitude  for  mental  growth. 
Lois  especially,  for  she  cares  more  to  go  into  the 
depths  of  things;  but  both  of  them  grow  fast,  and 
I  can  see  the  change  almost  from  day  to  day. 
Tastes  are  waking  up,  and  eager  for  gratification ; 
there  is  no  limit  to  the  intellectual  hunger  or  the 
power  of  assimilation;  the  winter  is  one  of  very 
great  enjoyment  to  them  (as  to  me !)  and  there  is, 
and  that  has  been  from  the  first,  a  refinement  of 
manner  which  surprised  me,  but  that  too  is  growing. 
And  yet,  with  all  this,  which  promises  so  much, 
there  is  another  element  which  threatens  discomfi 
ture  to  our  hopes.  I  must  not  conceal  it  from  you. 
These  people  are  regular  Puritans.  They  think 
now,  in  this  age  of  the  world,  to  regulate  their 
behaviour  entirely  by  the  Bible.  You  are  of  a  dif 
ferent  type;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  the  whole 
family  would  regard  an  alliance  with  a  man  like 
you  as  an  unlawful  thing;  ay,  though  he  were  a 


SCRUPLES.  357 

prince  or  a  Rothschild,  it  would  make  no  difference 
in  their  view  of  the  thing.  For  here  is  independ 
ence,  pure  and  absolute.  The  family  is  very  poor; 
they  are  glad  of  the  money  I  pay  them;  but  they 
would  not  bend  their  heads  before  the  prestige  of 
wealth,  or  do  what  they  think  wrong  to  gain  any 
human  favour  or  any  earthly  advantage.  And  Lois 
is  like  the  rest ;  quite  as  firm ;  in  fact  some  of  these 
gentle  women  have  a  power  of  saying  '  110 '  which 
is  only  a  little  less  than  fearful.  I  can  not  tell 
what  love  would  do;  but  I  do  not  believe  it  would 
break  down  her  principle.  We  had  a  talk  lately 
on  this  very  subject;  she  was  very  firm. 

"  I  think  I  ought  not  to  conceal  from  you  that 
I  have  doubts  on  another  question.  We  were  at  a 
family  supper  party  last  night  at  an  aunt's  house. 
She  is  a  character  too;  a  kind  of  a  grenadier  of  a 
woman,  in  nature,  not  looks.  The  house  and  the 
entertainment  were  very  interesting  to  me;  the 
mingling  of  things  was  very  striking  that  one 
does  not  expect  to  find  in  connection.  For  in 
stance — the  appointments  of  the  table  were,  as  of 
course  they  would  be,  of  no  pretension  to  style  or 
elegance;  clumsily  comfortable,  was  all  you  could 
say.  And  the  cooking  was  delicately  fine.  Then, 
manners  and  language  were  somewhat  lacking  in 
polish,  to  put  it  mildly;  and  the  tone  of  thought 
and  the  qualities  of  mind  and  character  exhibited, 
were  very  far  above  what  I  have  heard  often  in 
circles  of  great  pretension.  Once  the  conversation 
got  upon  the  contrasting  ways  of  life  in  this  society 


358  NOBODY. 

and  in  what  is  called  the  world;  the  latter,  I  confess 
to  you,  met  with  some  hard  treatment;  and  the  idea 
was  rejected  with  scorn  that  one  of  the  girls  should 
ever  be  tempted  out  of  her  own  sphere  into  the 
other.  All  this  is  of  no  consequence;  but  what 
struck  me  was  a  hint  or  two  that  Lois  had  been 
1  empted ;  and  a  pretty  plain  assertion  that  this  aunt, 
who  it  seems  was  at  Appledore  last  summer  nurs 
ing  Mrs.  Wishart,  had  received  some  sort  of  orer- 
ture  or  advance  on  Lois's  behalf  and  had  rejected 
it.  This  was  evidently  news  to  Lois;  and  she 
shewed  so  much  startled  displeasure — in  her  face, 
for  she  said  almost  nothing — that  the  suspicion  was 
forced  upon  me,  there  might  have  been  more  in  the 
matter  than  the  aunt  knew.  Who  was  at  Apple 
dore  ?  a  friend  of  yours,  was  it  not  ?  and  are  you 
sure  he  did  not  gain  some  sort  of  lien  upon  this 
heart  which  you  are  so  keen  to  win  ?  I  owe  it  to 
you  to  set  you  upon  this  inquiry;  for  if  I  know  any 
thing  of  the  girl  she  is  as  true  and  as  unbending  as 
steel.  What  she  holds  she  will  hold ;  what  she  loves 
she  will  love,  I  believe,  to  the  end.  So  before  we 
go  any  further,  let  us  find  whether  we  have  ground 
to  go  on.  No,  I  would  not  have  you  come  here  at 
present.  Not  in  any  case ;  and  certainly  not  in  this 
uncertainty.  You  are  too  wise  to  wish  it." 

Whether  Philip  were  too  wise  to  wish  it,  he  was 
too  wise  to  give  the  rein  to  his  wishes.  He  staid 
in  New  York  all  winter,  contenting  himself  with 
sending  to  Shampuashuh  every  imaginable  thing 
that  could  make  Mrs.  Barclay's  life  there  pleasant, 


SCRUPLES.  359 

or  help  her  to  make  it  useful  to  her  two  young 
friends.  A  fine  Chickering  piano  arrived  between 
Christmas  and  New  Year's  day,  and  was  set  up 
in  the  space  left  for  it  between  the  bookshelves. 
Books  continued  to  flow  in;  books  of  all  sorts; 
science  and  art,  history  and  biography,  poetry  and 
general  literature.  And  Lois  would  have  devel 
oped  into  a  bookworm,  had  not  the  piano  exer 
cised  an  almost  equal  charm  upon  her.  Listening 
to  Mrs.  Barclay's  music  at  first  was  an  absorbing 
pleasure ;  then  Mrs.  Barclay  asked  casually  one  day 
"  Shall  I  teach  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  could  not ! "  was  Lois's  answer,  given 
with  a  breath  and  a  flush  of  excitement. 

"  Let  us  try,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  smiling.  "  You 
might  learn  at  least  enough  to  accompany  your 
self.  I  have  never  heard  your  voice.  Have  you  a 
voice  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  would  call  a  voice,"  said 
Lois  smiling. 

"But  you  sing?" 

"  Hymns.     Nothing  else." 

"  Have  you  a  hymn  book  ?  with  music,  I  mean  ?  " 

Lois  brought  one.  Mrs.  Barclay  played  the  ac 
companiment  of  a  familiar  hymn,  and  Lois  sang. 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  the  former  when  she  had 
done, — "  that  is  delicious !  " 

"Is  it?" 

"Your  voice  is  very  fine;  it  has  a  peculiar  and 
uncommon  richness.  0  you  must  let  me  train  that 
voice." 


360  NOBODY. 

"  I  should  like  to  sing  hymns  as  well  as  I  can," 
Lois  answered,  flushing  somewhat. 

"  You  would  like  to  sing  other  things,  too." 

" Songs  ? " 

"  Yes.     Some  songs  are  beautiful." 

"  I  never  liked  much  those  I  have  heard." 

"  Why  not?" 

"  They  seemed  rather  foolish." 

u  Did  they !  The  choice  must  have  been  unfor 
tunate.  Where  did  you  hear  them  ?  " 

"  In  New  York.  In  company  there.  The  voices 
were  sometimes  delightful;  but  the  words — " 

«  Well,— the  words  ?  " 

"  I  wondered  how  they  could  like  to  sing  them. 
There  was  nothing  in  them  but  nonsense." 

"  You  are  a  very  severe  critic !  " 

"No — "  said  Lois  deprecatingly ;  "but  I  think 
hymns  are  so  much  better.1' 

44  Well,  we  will  see.  Songs  are  not  the  first  thing ; 
your  voice  must  be  trained." 

So  a  new  element  came  into  the  busy  life  of  that 
winter;  and  music  now  made  demands  on  time  and 
attention  which  Lois  found  it  a  little  difficult  to 
meet,  without  abridging  the  long  reading  hours 
and  diligent  studies  to  which  she  had  hitherto 
been  giving  all  her  spare  time.  But  the  piano 
was  so  alluring !  And  every  morsel  of  real  music 
that  Mrs.  Barclay  touched  was  so  entrancing  to  Lois. 
To  Lois ;  Madge  did  not  care  about  it,  except  for  the 
wonder  of  seeing  Mrs.  Barclay's  fingers  fly  over  the 
keys ;  and  Charity  took  quite  a  different  view  again. 


SCRUPLES.  361 

"  Mother,"  she  said  one  evening  to  the  old  lady, 
whom  they  often  called  so,  "don't  it  seem  to  you 
that  Lois  is  gettin'  turned  round  ?  " 

"  How,  rny  dear  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  aint  like  the  Lois  we  used  to  have. 
She's  rushin'  at  books,  from  morning  to  night,  or 
scritch-scratching  on  a  slate;  and  the  rest  o'  the 
time  she's  like  uothin'  but  the  girl  in  the  song, 
that  had  *  bells  on  her  fingers  and  rings  on  her 
toes.'  I  hear  that  piano-forty  going  at  all  hours; 
it's  tinkle,  tinkle,  every  other  thing.  What's  the 
good  of  all  that  ?  " 

"  What's  the  harm  ?  "  said  Lois. 

"  What's  she  doin'  it  for,  that  woman  ?  One  'ud 
think  she  had  come  here  just  on  purpose  to  teach 
Madge  and  you;  for  she  don't  do  anything  else. 
What's  it  all  for?  that's  what  I'd  like  to  be  told."  . 

"  I'm  sure  she's  very  kind,"  said  Madge. 

*'  Mother,  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

**  What  is  the  harm  in  what  we  are  doing,  Char 
ity  ?  "  asked  her  younger  sister. 

"  If  a  thing  aint  good  it's  always  harm  ! " 

"  But  these  things  are  good." 

("Maybe  good  for  some  folks;  they  aint  good  for 
you." 

"I  wish  you  would  say  'are  not,'"  said  Lois. 

"There!"  said  Charity.  "There  it  is!  You're 
pilin'  one  thing  on  top  of  another,  till  your  head 
won't  stand  it ;  and  the  house  won't  be  high  enough 
for  you  by  and  by.  All  these  ridiculous  ways,  of 
people  that  think  themselves  too  nice  for  common 


362  NOBODY. 

things !  and  you've  lived  all  your  life  among  com 
mon  things,  and  are  going  to  live  all  your  life 
among  them.  And  mother,  all  this  French  and 
music  will  just  make  Lois  discontented.  You  see  if 
it  don't." 

"Do  I  act  discontented?"  Lois  asked  with  a 
pleasant  smile. 

"  Does  she  leave  any  of  her  work  for  you  to  do, 
Charity  ?  "  said  Madge. 

"  Wait  till  the  spring  opens  and  garden  must  be 
made,"  said  Charity. 

»'  I  should  never  think  of  leaving  that  to  you  to 
do,  Charity,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "  We  should  have 
a  poor  chance  of  a  garden." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  you'd  stop  it." 

Mrs.  Armadale  said  however  nothing  at  the  time. 
But  the  next  chance  she  had  when  she  and  her 
youngest  granddaughter  were  alone  she  said, 

"  Lois,  are  you  in  danger  of  lettin'  your  pleasure 
make  you  forget  your  duty  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  grandmother.  I  do  not  think  it. 
I  take  these  things  to  be  duty.  I  think  one  ought 
always  to  learn  anything  one  has  an  opportunity 
of  learning?" 

"One  thing  is  needful" — said  the  old  lady, 
doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  grandmother.     I  do  not  forget  that." 

"  You  don't  want  to  learn  the  ways  of  the  world, 
Lois." 

"No,  grandmother." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

PEAS    AND    RADISHES. 

MR.  DILLWYN,  as  I  said,  did  not  come  near 
Shampuashuh.  He  took  his  indemnification 
in  sending  all  sorts  of  pleasant  things.  Papers  and 
magazines  overflowed,  flowed  over  into  Mrs.  Marx's 
hands  and  made  her  life  rich;  flowed  over  again 
into  Mr.  Hotchkiss's  hands  and  embroidered  his 
life  for  him.  Mr.  Dillwyn  sent  fruit;  foreign  fruit, 
strange  and  delicious,  which  it  was  a  sort  of  edu 
cation  even  to  eat,  bringing  one  nearer  to  the 
countries  so  far  and  unknown,  where  it  grew.  He 
sent  music;  and  if  some  of  it  passed  under  Lois's 
ban  as  "  nonsense,"  that  was  not  the  case  with  the 
greater  part.  "  She  has  a  marvellous  true  appreci 
ation  of  what  is  fine,"  Mrs.  Barclay  wrote;  "and 
she  rejects  with  an  accuracy  which  surprises  me 
all  that  is  merely  pretty  and  flashy.  There  are 
some  bits  of  Handel  that  have  great  power  over 
the  girl;  she  listens  to  them  I  might  almost  say 
devoutly,  and  is  never  weary.  Madge  is  delighted 
with  Rossini ;  but  Lois  gives  her  adherence  to  the 

(363) 


364  NOBODY. 

German  classics,  and  when  I  play  Haydn  or  Mo 
zart  or  Mendelssohn,  stands  rapt  in  her  delighted 
listening,  and  looking  like — well,  I  will  not  tanta 
lize  you  by  trying  to  describe  to  you  what  I  see 
every  day.  I  marvel  only  where  the  girl  got  these 
tastes  and  susceptibilities;  it  must  be  blood;  I  be 
lieve  in  inheritance.  She  has  had  until  now  no 
training  or  experience;  but  your  bird  is  growing 
her  wings  fast  now,  Philip.  If  you  can  manage 
to  cage  her !  Natures  hereabout  are  not  tame,  by 
any  means." 

Mr.  Dillwyn,  I  believe  I  mentioned,  sent  engrav 
ings,  and  exquisite  photographs;  and  these  almost 
rivalled  Haydn  and  Mozart  in  Lois's  mind.  For 
various  reasons  Mrs.  Barclay  sought  to  make  at 
least  this  source  of  pleasure  common  to  the  whole 
family;  and  would  often  invite  them  all  into  her 
room,  or  carry  her  portfolio  out  into  their  general 
sitting-room,  and  display  to  the  eyes  of  them  all 
the  views  of  foreign  lands;  cities,  castles  and 
ruins,  palaces  and  temples,  Swiss  mountains  and 
Scotch  lochs,  Paris  Boulevards  and  Venetian  ca 
nals,  together  with  remains  of  ancient  art  and 
works  of  modern  artists;  of  all  which  Philip  sent 
an  unbounded  number  and  variety.  These  even 
ings  were  unendingly  curious  to  Mrs.  Barclay. 
Comment  was  free,  and  undoubtedly  original, 
whatever  else  might  be  said  of  it;  and  character, 
and  the  habit  of  life  of  her  audience,  were  un 
consciously  revealed  to  her.  Intense  curiosity 
and  eagerness  for  information  were  observable  in 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  365 

them  all;  but  tastes,  arid  the  power  of  apprehen 
sion,  and  receptiveness  towards  new  and  strange 
ideas,  and  the  judgment  passed  upon  things,  were 
very  different  in  the  different  members  of  the 
group.  These  exhibitions  had  further  one  good 
effect,  not  unintended  by  the  exhibitor;  they 
brought  the  whole  family  somewhat  in  tone  with 
the  new  life  to  which  two  of  its  members  were 
rising.  It  was  not  desirable  that  Lois  should  be 
too  far  in  advance  of  her  people,  or  rather,  that 
they  should  be  too  far  behind  her.  The  ques 
tions  propounded  to  Mrs.  Barclay  on  these  occa 
sions,  and  the  elucidations  she  found  it  desirable 
to  give  with  oil  t  questions,  transformed  her  part 
into  that  of  a  lecturer;  and  the  end  of  such  an 
evening  would  find  her  tired  with  her  exertions, 
yet  well  repaid  for  them.  The  old  grandmother 
manifested  great  curiosity,  great  admiration,  with 
frequently  an  expression  of  doubt  or  disapproval; 
and  very  often  a  strange,  slight,  inexpressible  air 
of  one  who  felt  herself  to  belong  to  a  different 
world,  to  which  all  these  things  were  more  or  less 
foreign.  Charity  shewed  also  intense  eagerness 
and  curiosity,  and  inquisitiveness ;  and  mingled 
with  those,  a  very  perceptible  flavour  of  incredu 
lity  or  of  disdain,  the  latter  possibly  born  of  envy. 
But  Lois  and  Madge  were  growing,  with  every 
journey  to  distant  lands  and  every  new  introduc 
tion  to  the  great  works  of  men's  hands,  of  every 
kind  and  of  every  age. 

After  receiving  that  letter  of  Mrs.  Barclay's  men 


366  NOBODY. 

tioned  in  the  last  chapter,  Philip  Dillwyn  would  im 
mediately  have  attacked  Tom  Caruthers  again  on  the 
question  of  his  liking  for  Miss  Lothrop,  to  find  out 
whether  possibly  there  were  any  the  least  founda 
tion  for  Mrs.  Barclay's  scruples  and  fears.  But  it 
was  no  longer  in  his  power.  The  Caruthers  family 
had  altered  their  plans;  and  instead  of  going  abroad 
in  the  spring,  had  taken  their  departure  with  the 
first  of  December,  after  an  impromptu  wedding 
of  Julia  to  her  betrothed.  Mr.  Dillwyn  did  not 
seriously  believe  that  there  was  anything  his  plan 
had  to  fear  from  this  side;  nevertheless,  he  pre 
ferred  not  to  move  in  the  dark;  and  he  w^aited. 
Besides,  he  must  allow  time  for  the  work  he  had 
sent  Mrs.  Barclay  to  do ;  to  hurry  matters  would 
be  to  spoil  everything;  and  it  was  much  better 
on  every  ground  that  he  should  keep  away  from 
Shampuashuh.  As  I  said,  he  busied  himself  with 
Shampuashuh  affairs  all  he  could,  and  wore  out 
the  winter  as  he  best  might;  which  was  not  very 
satisfactorily.  And  when  spring  came  he  resolutely 
carried  out  his  purpose  and  sailed  for  Europe.  Till 
at  least  a  year  had  gone  by  he  would  not  try  to 
see  Lois;  Mrs.  Barclay  should  have  a  year  at  least 
to  push  her  beneficent  influence  and  bring  her  edu 
cational  efforts  to  some  visible  result ;  he  would  keep 
away ;  but  it  would  be  much  easier  to  keep  away 
if  the  ocean  lay  between  them,  and  he  went  to 
Florence  and  northern  Italy  and  the  Adriatic. 

Meanwhile  the  winter  had  "  flown  on  soft  wings" 
at  Shampuashuh.     Every  day  seemed  to  be  grow- 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  367 

x 

ing  fuller  and  richer  than  its  predecessors;  every 
day  Lois  and  Madge  were  more  eager  in  the  search 
after  knowledge  and  more  ready  for  the  reception 
of  it.  A  change  was  going  on  in  them,  so  swift 
that  Mrs.  Barclay  could  almost  see  it  from  day  to 
day.  Whether  others  saw  it  I  cannot  tell ;  but  Mrs. 
Marx  shook  her  head  in  the  fear  of  it,  and  Charity 
opined  that  the  family  "  might  whistle  for  a  garden 
and  for  butter  and  cheese  next  summer."  Precious 
opportunity  of  winter  days,  when  no  gardening 
nor  dairy  work  was  possible !  and  blessed  long 
nights  and  mornings,  after  sunset  and  before  sun 
rise,  when  no  housework  of  any  sort  put  in  claims 
upon  the  leisure  of  the  two  girls.  There  were  no 
interruptions  from  without.  In  Shampuashuh  so 
ciety  could  not  be  said  to  nourish.  Beyond  an 
occasional  "  sewing  society  "  meeting,  and  a  much 
more  rare  gathering  for  purely  social  purposes,  noth 
ing  more  than  a  stray  caller  now  and  then  broke 
the  rich  quiet  of  those  winter  days;  the  time  for 
a  tillage  and  a  sowing  and  a  growth  far  beyond 
in  preciousness  all  the  "  precious  things  put  forth 
by  the  sun "  in  the  more  genial  time  of  the  year. 
But  days  began  to  become  longer,  nevertheless, 
as  the  weeks  went  on ;  and  daylight  was  pushing 
those  happy  mornings  and  evenings  into  lesser  and 
lesser  compass;  and  snow  quite  disappeared  from 
the  fields,  and  buds  began  to  swell  on  the  trees 
and  take  colour,  and  airs  grew  more  gentle  in 
temperature;  though  I  am  bound  to  say  there  is 
a  sharpness  sometimes  in  the  nature  of  a  Shamp- 


368  NOBODY. 

uashuh  spring,  that  quite  outdoes  all  the  greater 
rigours  of  the  winter  that  has  gone. 

"The  frost  is  out  of  the  ground ! "  said  Lois  one 
day  to  her  friend. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  innocently;  "I  sup 
pose  that  is  a  good  thing." 

Lois  went  on  with  her  drawing  and  made  no 
answer. 

But  soon  Mrs.  Barclay  began  to  perceive  that  less 
reading  and  studying  were  done ;  or  else  some  draw 
ing  lingered  on  its  way  towards  completion;  and 
the  deficits  became  more  and  more  striking.  At 
last  she  demanded  the  reason. 

"O,"  said  Madge,  "the  cows  have  come  in,  and  I 
have  a  good  deal  to  do  in  the  dairy  now;  it  takes 
up  all  my  mornings.  I'm  so  sorry,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  !  but  the  milk  must  be  seen  to,  and  the 
butter  churned,  and  then  worked  over;  and  it  takes 
time,  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"And  Lois?" 

"  O  Lois  is  making  garden." 

"Making  garden!" 

"Yes.  0  she  always  does  it.  It's  her  particular 
part  of  the  business.  We  all  do  a  little  of  every 
thing;  but  the  garden  is  Lois's  special  province, 
and  the  dairy  mine,  and  Charity  takes  the  cooking 
and  the  sewing.  0  we  all  do  our  own  sewing,  and 
we  all  do  grandmother's  sewing;  only  Charity  takes 
head  in  that  department." 

"  What  does  Lois  do  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  0  everything.     We  get  somebody  to  plough  it 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  369 

up  in  the  fall;  and  in  the  spring  we  have  it  dug 
over ;  but  all  the  rest  she  does.  We  have  a  good 
garden  too,"  said  Madge  smiling. 

"  And  these  things  take  your  morning  and  her 
morning  ?  " 

"  Yes  indeed;  I  should  think  they  did.    Kather! " 

Mrs.  Barclay  held  her  peace,  then  and  for  some 
time  afterwards.  The  spring  came  on,  the  days  be 
came  soft  and  lovely,  after  March  had  blown  itself 
out;  the  trees  began  to  put  forth  leaves,  the  blue 
birds  were  darting  about,  like  skyey  messengers; 
robins  were  whistling,  and  daffodils  were  bursting, 
and  grass  was  green.  One  lovely,  warm  morning, 
when  everything  without  seemed  beckoning  to  her, 
Mrs.  Barclay  threw  on  a  shawl  and  hat  and  made 
her  way  out  to  the  old  garden,  which  up  to  this 
day  she  had  never  entered. 

She  found  the  great,  wide  enclosure  looking 
empty  and  bare  enough.  The  two  or  three  old 
apple  trees  hung  protectingly  over  the  wooden 
bench  in  the  middle,  their  branches  making  pretty 
tracery  against  the  tender  clear  blue  of  the  sky; 
but  no  shade  was  there.  The  branches  only 
shewed  a  little  token  of  swelling  and  bursting  buds, 
which  indeed  softened  in  a  lovely  manner  the  lines 
of  that  interlacing  network  of  branches,  and  prom 
ised  a  plenty  of  green  shadow  by  and  by.  No 
shadow  was  needed  at  present,  for  the  sun  was  too 
gentle ;  its  warmth  was  welcome  and  beneficent  and 
kindly.  The  old  cherry  tree  in  the  corner  was  be 
ginning  to  open  its  wealth  of  white  blossoms;  ev- 


370  NOBODY. 

erywhere  else  the  bareness  and  brownness  of  win 
ter  was  still  reigning,  only  excepting  the  patches 
of  green  turf  around  the  boles  and  under  the  spread 
ing  boughs  of  the  trees  here  and  there.  The  gar 
den  was  no  garden,  only  a  spread  of  soft,  up-turned, 
brown  loam.  It  looked  a  desolate  place  to  Mrs. 
Barclay. 

In  the  midst  of  it,  the  one  point  of  life  and 
movement,  was  Lois.  She  was  in  a  coarse,  stout, 
stuff  dress,  short  and  tucked  up  besides,  to  keep 
it  out  of  the  dirt.  Her  hands  were  covered  with 
coarse  thick  gloves,  her  head  with  a  little  old  straw 
hat.  At  the  moment  Mrs.  Barclay  came  up  she 
was  raking  a  patch  of  ground  which  she  had  care 
fully  marked  out  and  bounded  with  a  trampled  foot 
way;  she  was  bringing  it  with  her  rake  into  a 
condition  of  beautiful  level  smoothness,  handling 
her  tool  with  light  dexterity.  As  Mrs.  Barclay 
came  near  she  looked  up  with  a  flash  of  surprise 
and  a  smile. 

"  I  have  found  you,"  said  the  lady.  "  So  this  is 
what  you  are  about !  " 

"  It  is  what  I  am  always  about  at  this  time  of 
year." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"  Just  here  1  am  going  to  put  in  radishes  and 
lettuce." 

"  Radishes  and  lettuce !  And  that  is  instead  of 
French  and  philosophy !  " 

"This  is  philosophy,"  said  Lois,  while  with  a 
neat  movement  of  her  rake  she  threw  off  some 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  371 

stones  which  she  had  collected  from  the  surface 
of  the  bed.  "  Very  good  philosophy.  Surely  the 
philosophy  of  life  is  first — to  live." 

Mrs.  Barclay  was  silent  a  moment  upon  this. 

"Are  radishes  and  lettuce  the  first  thing  you 
plant  in  the  spring,  then  ?  " 

"  0  dear  no !  "  said  Lois.  "  Do  you  see  all  that 
corner?  that's  in  potatoes.  Do  you  see  those  slight 
ly  marked  lines — here,  running  across  from  the 
walk  to  the  wall  ? — peas  are  there.  They'll  be  up 
soon.  I  think  I  shall  put  in  some  corn  to-morrow. 
Yonder  is  a  bed  of  radishes  and  lettuce  just  out 
of  the  ground.  We'll  have  some  radishes  for  tea, 
before  you  know  it." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  been 
planting  potatoes?  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lois,  looking  at  her  and  laughing. 
"  I  like  to  plant  potatoes.  In  fact  I  like  to  plant 
anything.  What  I  do  not  always  like  so  well,  is 
the  taking  care  of  them  after  they  are  up  and 
growing." 

Mrs.  Barclay  sat  down  and  watched  her.  Lois 
was  now  tracing  delicate  little  drills  across  the 
breadth  of  her  nicely  prepared  bed ;  little  drills  all 
alike,  just  so  deep  and  just  so  far  apart.  Then  she 
went  to  a  basket  hard  by  for  a  little  paper  of  seeds; 
two  papers;  and  began  deftly  to  scatter  the  seed 
along  the  drills,  with  delicate  and  careful  but  quick 
fingers.  Mrs.  Barclay  watched  her  till  she  had 
filled  all  the  rows,  and  began  to  cover  the  seeds 
in ;  that  too  she  did  quick  and  skilfully. 


372  NOBODY. 

"  That  is  not  fit  work  for  you  to  do,  Lois." 

44  Why  not?" 

"You  have  something  better  to  do." 

44  I  do  not  see  how  I  can.  This  is  the  work  that 
is  given  me." 

"  But  any  common  person  could  do  that  ?  " 

44  We  have  not  got  the  common  person  to  do  it," 
said  Lois  laughing;  "so  it  comes  upon  an  uncom 
mon  one." 

"  But  there  is  a  fitness  in  things." 

"  So  you  will  think,  when  you  get  some  of  my 
young  lettuce."  The  drills  were  fast  covered  in, 
but  there  were  a  good  many  of  them,  and  Lois 
went  on  talking  and  working  with  equal  spirit. 

44 1  do  not  think  I  shall — "  Mrs.  Barclay  answered 
the  last  statement. 

"I  like  to  do  this,  Mrs.  Barclay.  I  like  to  do 
it  very  much.  I  am  pulled  a  little  two  ways  this 
spring — but  that  only  shews  this  is  good  for  me." 

44  How  so  ?  " 

44  When  anybody  is  living  to  his  own  pleasure, 
I  guess  he  is  not  in  the  best  way  of  improvement." 

44  Is  there  no  one  but  you  to  do  all  the  weed 
ing,  by  and  by,  when  the  garden  will  be  full  of 
plants?" 

"  Nobody  else,"  said  Lois. 

44  That  must  take  a  great  deal  of  your  time  1 " 

44 Yes,"  said  Lois,  44it  does;  that  and  the  fruit- 
picking." 

44  Fruit-picking !  Mercy !  Why  child,  must  you 
do  all  that?" 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  373 

"  It  is  my  part,"  said  Lois  pleasantly.  "  Charity 
and  Madge  have  each  their  part.  This  is  mine,  and 
I  like  it  better  than  theirs.  But  it  is  only  so,  Mrs. 
Barclay,  that  we  are  able  to  get  along.  A  gar 
dener  would  eat  up  our  garden.  I  take  only  my 
share.  And  there  is  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  it. 
It  is  pleasant  to  provide  for  the  family's  wants,  and 
to  see  the  others  enjoy  what  I  bring  in ; — yes,  and 
to  enjoy  it  myself.  And  then,  do  you  see  how 
pleasant  the  work  is !  Don't  you  like  it  out  here 
this  morning?" 

Mrs.  Barclay  cast  a  glance  around  her  again. 
There  was  a  slight  spring  haze  in  the  air,  which 
seemed  to  catch  and  hold  the  sun's  rays  and  diffuse 
them  in  gentle  beneficence.  Through  it  the  open 
ing  cherry  blossoms  gave  their  tender  promise;  the 
brown,  bare  apple  trees  were  softened;  an  inde 
scribable  breath  of  hope  and  life  was  in  the  air,  to 
which  the  birds  were  doing  all  they  could  to  give 
expression;  there  was  a  delicate  joy  in  Nature's 
face,  as  if  at  being  released  from  the  bands  of  Win 
ter  and  having  her  hands  free  again.  The  smell  of 
the  up-turned  earth  came  fresh  to  Mrs.  Barclay's 
nostrils,  along  with  a  salt  savour  from  the  not  dis 
tant  sea.  Yes,  it  was  pleasant,  with  a  rare  and 
wonderful  pleasantness;  and  yet  Mrs.  Barclay's  eyes 
came  discontentedly  back  to  Lois. 

"  It  would  be  possible  to  enjoy  all  this,  Lois,  if 
you  were  not  doing  such  evil  work." 

"Evil  work!  0  no,  Mrs.  Barclay.  The  work 
that  the  Lord  gives  anybody  to  do  cannot  be  evil. 


374  NOBODY. 

It  must  be  the  very  best  thing  he  can  do.  And  I 
do  not  believe  I  should  enjoy  the  spring — and  the 
summer — and  the  autumn — near  so  well,  if  I  were 
not  doing  it." 

"Must  one  be  a  gardener,  to  have  such  enjoy 
ment  ?  " 

"/must,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "  If  I  do  not  fol 
low  my  work,  my  work  follows  me;  and  then  it 
comes  like  a  taskmaster  and  carries  a  whip." 

"But  Lois!  that  sort  of  work  will  make  your 
hands  rough." 

Lois  lifted  one  of  her  hands  in  its  thick  glove  and 
looked  at  it.  "  Well,"  she  said,  "  what  then  ?  What 
are  hands  made  for  ?  " 

"  You  Know  very  well  what  I  mean.  You  know 
a  time  may  come  when  you  would  like  to  have 
your  hands  white  and  delicate." 

"The  time  is  come  now,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "I 
have  not  to  wait  for  it.  I  like  white  hands,  and 
delicate  hands,  as  well  as  anybody.  Mine  must  do 
their  work,  all  the  same.  Something  might  be  said 
for  my  feet  too,  I  suppose,"  she  added  with  another 
laugh. 

At  the  moment,  she  had  finished  outlining  an 
other  bed,  and  was  now  trampling  a  little  hard  bor 
der  pathway  round  it,  making  the  length  of  her 
foot  the  breadth  of  the  pathway,  and  setting  foot 
to  foot  close  together,  so  bit  by  bit  stamping  it 
round.  Mrs.  Barclay  looked  on,  and  wished  some 
body  else  could  have  looked  on,  at  the  bright,  fresh 
face  under  the  little  old  hat,  and  the  free  action  and 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  375 

spirit  and  accuracy  with  which  everytnmg  that 
either  feet  or  hands  did  was  done.  Somehow  she 
forgot  the  coarse  dress  and  only  saw  the  delicate 
creature  in  it. 

44  Lois,  I  do  not  like  it !  "  she  began  again.  *4  Do 
you  know,  some  people  are  very  particular  about 
these  little  things — fastidious  about  them.  You 
may  one  day  yet  want  to  please  one  of  those  very 
men." 

"Not  unless  he  wants  to  please  me  first'!"  said 
Lois,  with  a  glance  from  her  path-treading. 

44  Of  course.     I  am  supposing  that." 

44 1  don't  know  him!"  said  Lois.  44And  I  don't 
see  him  in  the  distance !  " 

44  That  proves  nothing."" 

"And  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  if  I 
did." 

"You  are  mistaken  in  thinking  that.  You  do 
not  know  yet  what  it  is  to  be  in  love,  Lois." 

44 1  don't  know,"  said  Lois.  "Can't  one  be  in 
love  with  one's  grandmother  ?  " 

44  But  Lois,  this  is  going  to  take  a  great  deal  of 
your  time." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

44  And  you  want  all  your'  time,  to  give  to  more 
important  things.  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  drop 
them  all  to  plant  potatoes.  Could  not  somebody 
else  be  found  to  do  it  ?  " 

44  We  could  not  afford  the  somebody,  Mrs.  Bar 
clay." 

It  was  not  doubtfully  or  regretfully  that  the  girl 


376  NOBODY. 

spoke;  the  brisk  content  of  her  answers  drove  Mrs. 
Barclay  almost  to  despair. 

"  Lois,  you  owe  something  to  yourself." 

"What,  Mrs.  Barclay?" 

"  You  owe  it  to  yourself  to  be  prepared  for  what 
I  am  sure  is  coming  to  you.  You  are  not  made  to 
live  in  Shampuashuh  all  your  life.  Somebody  will 
want  you  to  quit  it  and  go  out  into  the  wide  world 
with  him." 

Lois  was  silent  a  few  minutes,  with  her  colour  a 
little  heightened,  fresh  as  it  had  been  already; 
then,  having  tramped  all  round  her  new  bed,  she 
came  up  to  where  Mrs.  Barclay  and  her  basket  of 
seeds  were. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  at  all,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I 
shall  live  and  die  here." 

"  Do  you  feel  satisfied  with  that  prospect  ?  " 

Lois  turned  over  the  bags  of  seeds  in  her  basket, 
a  little  hurriedly ;  then  she  stopped  and  looked  up 
at  her  questioner. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  all  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  do  not  want  to  think  of  it.  I  have  enough  in 
hand  to  think  of.  And  I  am  satisfied,  Mrs.  Bar 
clay,  with  whatever  God  gives  me."  She  turned 
to  her  basket  of  seeds  again,  searching  for  a  partic 
ular  paper. 

"  I  never  heard  any  one  say  that  before,"  re 
marked  the  other  lady. 

"  As  long  as  I  can  say  it,  don't  you  see  that  is 
enough  ?  "  said  Lois  lightly.  "  I  enjoy  all  this  work, 
besides ;  and  so  will  you  by  and  by  when  you  get 


PEAS  AND  RADISHES.  377 

the  lettuce  and  radishes,  and  some  of  my  Tom 
Thumb  peas.  And  I  am  not  going  to  stop  my 
studies  either." 

She  went  back  to  the  new  bed  now,  where  she 
presently  was  very  busy  putting  more  seeds  in. 
Mrs.  Barclay  watched  her  a  while.  Then,  seeing  a 
small  smile  break  on  the  lips  of  the  gardener,  she 
asked  Lois  what  she  was  thinking  of?  Lois 
looked  up. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that  geode  you  shewed  us 
last  night." 

"That  geode!" 

"Yes,  it  is  so  lovely.  I  have  thought  of  it  a 
great  many  times.  I  am  wanting  very  much  to 
learn  about  stones  now.  I  thought  always  till  now 
that  stones  were  only  stones.  The  whole  world  is 
changed  to  me  since  you  have  come,  Mrs.  Barclay." 

Yes,  thought  that  lady  to  herself,  and  what  will 
be  the  end  of  it  ? 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  Lois  went  on,  "the  garden 
work  comes  harder  to  me  this  spring  than  ever  it 
did  before;  but  that  shews  it  is  good  for  me.  I 
have  been  having  too  much  pleasure  all  winter." 

"Can  one  have  too  much  pleasure?"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay  discontentedly. 

"  If  it  makes  one  unready  for  duty  ?  "  said  Lois. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

\ 

THE    LAGOON    OF    VENICE. 

TOWARDS  evening,  one  day  late  in  the  summer, 
the  sun  was  shining  as  its  manner  is  on  that 
marvellous  combination  of  domes,  arches,  mosaics 
and  carvings  which  goes  by  the  name  of  St.  Mark's 
at  Venice.  The  soft  Italian  sky,  glowing  and  rich, 
gave  a  very  benediction  of  colour;  all  around  was 
the  still  peace  of  the  lagoon  city;  only  in  the  great 
square  there  was  a  gentle  stir  and  flutter  and  rustle 
and  movement;  for  thousands  of  doves  were  flying 
about  and  coming  down  to  be  fed,  and  a  crowd  of 
varied  human  nature,  but  chiefly  not  belonging  to 
the  place,  were  watching  and  distributing  food  to 
the  feathered  multitude.  People  were  engaged 
with  the  doves,  or  with  each  other;  few  had  a  look 
to  spare  for  the  great  church ;  nobody  even  glanced 
at  the  columns  bearing  St.  Theodore  and  the  Lion. 
That  is,  speaking  generally.  For  under  one  of 
the  arcades,  leaning  against  one  of  the  great  pillars 
of  the  same,  a  man  stood  whose  look  by  turns  went 
to  everything.  He  had  been  standing  there  move 
less  for  half  an  hour;  and  it  passed  to  him  like  a 

(378) 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  379 

minute.  Sometimes  he  studied  that  combination 
aforesaid,  where  feeling  and  fancy  arid  faith  have 
made  such  glorious  work  together;  and  to  which, 
as  I  hinted,  the  Venetian  evening  was  lending  such 
indescribable  magnificence.  His  eye  dwelt  on  de 
tails  of  loveliness,  of  which  it  was  constantly  dis 
covering  new  revelations;  or  rested  on  the  whole 
colour-glorified  pile  with  meditative  remembrance 
of  what  it  had  seen  and  done  and  whence  it  had 
come.  Then  with  sudden  transition  he  would  give 
his  attention  to  the  motley  crowd  before  him,  and 
the  soft-winged  doves  fluttering  up  and  down  and 
filling  the  air.  And  tiring  of  these,  his  look  would 
go  off  again  to  the  bronze  lion  on  his  place  of 
honour  in  the  Piazzetta,  his  thought  probably  wan 
dering  back  to  the  time  when  he  was  set  there. 
The  man  himself  was  noticed  by  nobody.  He 
stood  in  the  shade  of  the  pillar  and  did  not  stir. 
He  was  a  gentleman  evidently;  one  sees  that  by 
slight  characteristics,  which  are  nevertheless  quite 
unmistakeable  and  not  to  be  counterfeited.  His 
dress  of  course  was  the  quiet,  unobtrusive,  and  yet 
perfectly  correct  thing,  which  dress  ought  to  be. 
His  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who  knew  both 
how  to  move  and  how  to  be  still,  and  did  both 
easily;  and  further,  the  look  of  him  betrayed  the 
habit  of  travel.  This  man  had  seen  so  much  that 
he  was  not  moved  by  any  young  curiosity;  knew 
so  much,  that  he  could  weigh  and  compare  what 
he  knew.  His  figure  was  very  good;  his  face 
agreeable  and  intelligent  with  good  observant  grey 


380  NOBODY. 

eyes ;  the  whole  appearance  striking.     But  nobody 
noted  him. 

And  he  had  noted  nobody ;  the  crowd  before 
him  was  to  him  simply  a  crowd,  which  excited  no 
interest  except  as  a  whole.  Until,  suddenly,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  head  and  shoulders  in  the  mov 
ing  throng,  which  started  him  out  of  his  careless 
ness.  They  were  but  a  few  yards  from  him,  seen 
and  lost  again  in  the  swaying  mass  of  human 
beings ;  but  though  half  seen  he  was  sure  he  could 
not  mistake.  He  spoke  out  a  little  loud  the  word 
"Tom!" 

He  was  not  heard,  and  the  person  spoken  to. 
moved  out  of  sight  again.  The  speaker  however 
now  left  his  place  and  plunged  among  the  people. 
Presently  he  had  another  glimpse  of  the  head  and 
shoulders,  and  was  yet  more  sure  of  his  man ;  lost 
sight  of  him  anew,  but  following  in  the  direction 
taken  by  the  chase  gradually  won  his  way  nearer, 
and  at  length  overtook  the  man,  who  was  then 
standing  between  the  pillars  of  the  Lion  and  St. 
Theodore  and  looking  out  towards  the  water. 

"  Tom ! "  said  his  pursuer  clapping  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Philip  Dillwyn ! "  said  the  other  turning. 
"  Philip !  Where  did  you  come  from.  What  a 
lucky  turn  up !  That  I  should  find  you  here." 

"I  found  you,  man.  Where  have  you  come 
from  ?  " 

"O  from  everywhere." 

"  Are  you  alone  ?    Where  are  your  people  ?  " 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  381 

"0  Julia  and  Lenox  are  gone  home.  Mamma 
and  I  are  here  yet.  I  left  mamma  in  a  pension  in 
Switzerland,  where  I  could  not  hold  it  out  any- 
longer;  and  I  have  been  wandering  about — Flor 
ence,  and  Pisa,  and  I  don't  know  all — till  now  I 
have  brought  up  in  Venice.  It  is  so  jolly  to 
get  you ! " 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"Nothing.  0  I  have  done  everything,  you 
know.  There  is  nothing  left  to  a  fellow." 

"That  sounds  hopeless,"  said  Dillwyn  laugh 
ing. 

"  It  is  hopeless.  Really,  I  don't  see,  sometimes, 
what  a  fellow's  life  is  good  for.  I  believe  the 
people  who  have  to  work  for  it,  have  after  all  the 
best  time  I " 

"They  work  to  live,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  suppose  they  do." 

"  Therefore  you  are  going  round  in  a  circle.  If 
life  is  worth  nothing,  why  should  one  work  to  keep 
it  up?" 

"Well,  what  is  it  worth,  Dillwyn?  Upon  my 
word,  I  have  never  made  it  out  satisfactorily." 

"  Look  here — we  cannot  talk  in  this  place.  Have 
you  ever  been  to  Torcello  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Suppose  we  take  a  gondola  and  go?" 

44  Now  ?     What  is  there  ?  " 

"An  old  church." 


382  NOBODY. 

"  There  are  old  churches  all  over.  The  thing  is 
to  find  a  new  one." 

"  You  prefer  the  new  ones? " 

"  Just  for  the  rarity,"  said  Tom  smiling. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  have  studied  the  old  ones 
yet.  Do  you  know  the  mosaics  in  St.  Mark's  ?  " 

"  I  never  study  mosaics." 

"And  I'll  wager  you  have  not  seen  the  Tintorets 
in  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  ?  " 

"  There  are  Tintorets  all  over !  "  said  Tom,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders  wearily.  ' 

"Then  have  you  seen  Murano?" 

"The  glass  works,  yes." 

"  I  do  not  mean  the  glass  works.  Come  along 
— anywhere  in  a  gondola  will  do,  such  an  evening 
as  this;  and  we  can  talk  comfortably.  You  need 
not  look  at  anything." 

They  entered  a  gondola,  and  were  presently  glid 
ing  smoothly  over  the  coloured  waters  of  the  lagoon ; 
shining  with  richer  sky  reflections  than  any  mortal 
painter  could  put  on  canvas.  Not  long  in  silence. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Tom,  all  this  while?" 

"  I  told  you,  everywhere  ! "  said  Tom  with  another 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  The  one  thing  one  comes 
abroad  for,  you  know,  is  to  run  away  from  the  win 
ter;  so  we  have  been  doing  that,  as  long  as  there 
was  any  winter  to  run  from,  and  since  then  we 
have  been  running  away  from  the  summer.  Let 
me  see — we  came  over  in  November,  didn't  we?  or 
December;  we  went  to  Rome  as  fast  as  we  could. 
There  was  very  good  society  in  Rome  last  winter. 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  383 

Then  as  spring  came  on  we  coasted  down  to  Naples 
and  Palermo.  We  staid  at  Palermo  a  while.  From 
there  we  went  back  to  England;  and  from  England 
we  came  to  Switzerland.  And  there  we  have  been 
till  I  couldn't  stand  Switzerland  any  longer;  and  I 
bolted." 

"  Palermo  isn't  a  bad  place  to  spend  awhile  in." 

"  No ; — but  Sicily  is  stupid  generally.  It's  all  ri 
diculous,  Philip.  Except  for  the  name  of  the  thing, 
one  can  get  just  as  good  nearer  home.  I  could  get 
better  sport  at  Appledore  last  summer,  than  in  any 
place  I've  been  at  in  Europe." 

"  Ah !  Appledore," — said  Philip  slowly,  and  dip 
ping  his  hand  in  the  water.  "  I  surmise  the  society 
also  was  good  there." 

"  Would  have  been,"  Tom  returned  discontentedly, 
"if  there  had  not  been  a  little  too  much  of  it." 

"Too  much  of  it!" 

"Yes.  I  couldn't  stir  without  two  or  three  at 
my  heels.  It's  very  kind,  you  know;  but  it  rather 
hampers  a  fellow." 

"  Miss  Lothrop  was  there,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  was !    That  made  all  the  trouble." 

"  And  all  the  sport  too,  hey,  Tom  ?  Things  usu 
ally  are  two-sided  in  this  world." 

"  She  made  no  trouble.  It  was  my  mother  and 
sister.  They  were  so  awfully  afraid  of  her.  And 
they  drilled  George  in ;  so  among  them  they  were 
too  many  for  me.  But  I  think  Appledore  is  the 
nicest  place  I  know." 

"You   might   buy  one  of  the   islands — a  little 


384  NOBODY. 

money  would  do  it — build  a  lodge,  and  have  your 
Europe  always  at  hand;  when  the  winter  is  gone, 
as  you  say.  Even  the  winter  you  might  manage  to 
live  through,  if  you  could  secure  the  right  sort  of 
society.  Hey,  Tom?  Isn't  that  an  idea?  I  won 
der  it  never  occurred  to  you.  I  think  one  might 
bid  defiance  to  the  world,  if  one  were  settled  at 
the  Isles  of  Shoals." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  with  something  very  like  a  groan 
"  If  one  hadn't  a  mother  and  sister." 

"  You  are  heathenish !  " 

"I'm  not,  at  all!"  returned  Tom  passionately. 
"  See  here,  Philip.  There  is  one  thing  goes  before 
mother  and  sister;  and  that  you  know.  It's  a  man's 
wife.  And  I've  seen  my  wife,  and  I  can't  get  her." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Dillwyri  drily.  He  was  hanging 
over  the  side  of  the  gondola  and  looking  attentively 
at  the  play  of  colour  in  the  water;  which  reflecting 
the  sky  in  still  splendour  where  it  lay  quiet,  broke 
up  in  ripples  under  the  gondolier's  oar  and  seemed 
to  scatter  diamonds  and  amethysts  and  topazes  in 
fairy-like  prodigality  all  around. 

"  I've  told  you !  "  said  Tom  fretfully. 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  not  comprehend.  Does  not  the 
lady  in  question  like  Appledore  as  well  as  you  do  ?  " 

"She  likes  Appledore  well  enough.  I  do  not 
know  how  well  she  likes  me.  I  never  had  a  chance 
to  find  out.  I  don't  think  she  cfo'siikes  me,  though," 
said  Tom  meditatively. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  to  find  out  yet,"  Philip  said 
with  even  more  dryness  in  his  tone. 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  385 

"0  isn't  it,  though!"  said  Tom.  "I'm  tied  up 
from  ever  asking  her  now.  I'm  engaged  to  another 
woman." 

41  Tom ! "  said  the  other,  suddenly  straightening 
himself  up. 

"Don't  shout  at  a  fellow!  What  could  1  do? 
They  wouldn't  let  me  have  what  I  wanted;  and 
now  they're  quite  pleased,  and  Julia  has  gone  home. 
She  has  done  her  work.  O  I  am  making  an  ex 
cellent  match.  *  An  old  family,  and  three  hundred 
thousand  dollars,'  as  my  mother  says.  That's  all 
one  wants,  you  know." 

"Who  is  the  lady?" 

"  It  don't  matter,  you  know,  when  you  have  heard 
her  qualifications.  It's  Miss  Dulcimer — one  of  the 
Philadelphia  Dulcimers.  Of  course  one  couldn't 
make  a  better  bargain  for  oneself.  And  I'm  as  fond 
of  her  as  I  can  be ;  in  fact,  I  was  afraid  I  was  get 
ting  too  fond.  So  I  ran  away,  as  I  told  you,  to  think 
over  my  happiness  at  leisure  and  moderate  my 
feelings." 

"Tom,  Tom,  I  never  heard  you  bitter  be 
fore,"  said  his  friend,  regarding  him  with  real 
concern. 

"  Because  I  never  was  bitter  before.  0  I  shall 
be  all  right  now.  I  haven't  had  a  soul  on  whom 
I  could  pour  out  my  mind,  till  this  hour.  I  know 
you're  as  safe  as  a  mine.  It  does  me  good  to  talk 
to  you.  I  tell  you,  I  shall  be  all  right.  I'm  a 
very  happy  bridegroom  expectant.  You  know,  if 
the  Caruthers  have  plenty  of  money,  the  Dulci- 


386  NOBODY. 

mers  have  twice  as  much.  Money's  really  every 
thing." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  how  this  news  will  touch 
Miss —  The  other  lady  you  were  talking  about  ?  " 

"  1  suppose  it  won't  touch  her  at  all.  She's 
different;  that's  one  reason  why  I  liked  her.  She 
would  not  care  a  farthing  for  me  because  I'm  a 
Caruthers,  or  because  I  have  money;  not  a  brass 
farthing !  She  is  the  rea?est  person  I  ever  saw. 
She  would  go  about  Appledore  from  morning  to 
night  in  the  greatest  state  of  delight  you  ever 
saw  anybody ;  where  my  sister,  for  instance,  would 
see  nothing  but  rocks  and  weeds.  Lois  would 
have  her  hands  full  of  what  Julia  would  call  trash, 
and  what  to  her  was  better  than  if  the  fairies  had 
done  it.  Things  pulled  out  of  the  shingle  and 
mud, — I  can  just  see  her, — and  flowers,  and  stones, 
and  shells.  What  she  would  make  of  this  now ! — 
But  you  couldn't  set  that  girl  down  anywhere, 
I  believe,  that  she  wouldn't  find  something  to 
make  her  feel  rich.  She's  a  richer  woman  this 
minute,  than  my  Dulcimer  with  her  thousands. 
And  she's  got  good  blood  in  her,  too,  Philip.  I 
learned  that  from  Mrs.  Wishart.  She  has  the 
blood  of  ever  so  many  of  the  old  Pilgrims  in  her 
veins ;  and  that  is  good  descent,  Philip  ?  " 

"They  think  so,  in  New  England." 

"  Well,  they  are  right,  I  am  ready  to  believe. 
Anyhow,  I  don't  care — " 

He  broke  off,  and  there  was  a  silence  of  some 
minutes'  length.  The  gondola  swarn  along  over 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  387 

the  quiet  water,  under  the  magnificent  sky;  the 
reflected  colours  glanced  upon  two  faces,  grave 
and  self  absorbed. 

"  Old  boy,"  said  Philip  at  length,  "  I  hardly  think 
you  are  right." 

"  Right  in  what  ?  I  am  right  in  all  I  have  told 
you." 

u  I  meant,  right  in  your  proposed  plan  of  action. 
You  may  say  it  is  none  of  my  business." 

"  I  shall  not  say  it,  though.  What's  the  wrong 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  Miss  Dulcimer  would  not  feel 
obliged  to  you,  if  she  knew  all." 

"She  doesn't  feel  obliged  to  me  at  all,"  said 
Tom.  "  She  gives  as.good  as  she  gets." 

"  No  better  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Pardon  me,  Tom;  but  you  have  been  frank 
with  me.  By  your  own  account,  she  will  get 
very  little." 

"  All  she  wants.  I'll  give  her  a  local  habitation, 
and  a  name." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  unjust." 

"Not  at  all.  That  is  all  half  the  girls  want; 
all  they  try  for.  She's  very  content.  0  I'm  very 
good  to  her  when  we  are  together;  and  I  mean  to 
be.  You  needn't  look  at  me,"  said  Tom  trying  to 
laugh.  "  Three  quarters  of  all  the  marriages  that 
are  made  are  on  the  same  pattern.  Why  Phil, 
what  do  the  men  and  women  of  this  world  live 
for?  What's  the  purpose  in  all  I've  been  doing 


388  NOBODY. 

since  I  left  college  ?  What's  the  good  of  floating 
round  in  the  world  as  I  have  been  doing  all  sum 
mer  and  winter,  here  this  year?  and  at  home  it  is 
different  only  in  the  manner  of  it.  People  live 
for  nothing,  and  don't  enjoy  life.  I  don't  know 
at  this  minute  a  single  man  or  woman,  of  our 
sort,  you  know,  that  enjoys  life;  except  that  one. 
And  she  isn't  our  sort.  She  has  no  money,  and 
no  society,  and  no  Europe  to  wander  round  in! 
0  they  would  say  they  enjoy  life;  but  their  way 
shews  they  don't." 

"Enjoyment  is  not  the  first  thing,"  Philip  said 
thoughtfully. 

"0  isn't  it!  It's  what  we're  all  after,  anyhow; 
you'll  allow  that." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  way  we  miss  it." 

"So  Dulcimer  and  I  are  all  right,  you  see," 
pursued  Tom  without  heeding  this  remark.  "We 
shall  be  a  very  happy  couple.  All  the  world  will 
have  us  at  their  houses,  and  we  shall  have  all  the 
world  at  ours.  There  won't  be  room  left  for  any 
thing  but  happiness;  and  that'll  squeeze  in  any 
where,  you  know.  It's  like  chips  floating  round 
on  the  surface  of  a  whirlpool — they  fly  round  and 
round  splendidly, — till  they  get  sucked  in." 

"  Tom !  "  cried  his  companion.  "  What  has  come 
to  you?  Your  life  is  not  so  different  now  from 
what  it  has  always  been; — and  I  have  always 
known  you  for  a  light-hearted  fellow.  I  can't  have 
you  take  this  tone." 

Tom  was  silent,  biting  the  ends  of  his  moustache 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  389 

in  a  nervous  way,  which  bespoke  a  good  deal  of 
mental  excitement;  Philip  feared,  of  mental  trouble. 

"  If  a  friend  may  ask,  how  came  you  to  do  what 
is  so  unsatisfactory  to  you  ?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"  My  blessed  mother  and  sister !  They  were  so 
preciously  afraid  I  should  ruin  myself.  Philip,  I 
could  not  make  head  against  them.  They  were  too 
much  for  me,  and  too  many  for  me ;  they  were  all 
round  me;  they  were  ahead  of  me;  I  had  no 
chance  at  all.  So  I  gave  up  in  despair.  Women 
are  the  devil,  when  they  take  a  thing  in  their 
head!  A  man's  nowhere.  I  gave  in,  and  gave 
up,  and  came  away,  and  now — they're  satisfied." 

"Then  the  affair  is  definitely  concluded?" 

"  As  definitely  as  if  my  head  was  off." 

Philip  did  not  laugh,  and  there  was  a  pause 
again.  The  colours  were  fading  from  sky  and 
water,  and  a  yellow,  soft  moonlight  began  to  assert 
her  turn.  It  was  a  change  of  beauty  for  beauty ; 
but  neither  of  the  two  young  men  seemed  to  take 
notice  of  it. 

"Tom,"  began  the  other  after  a  time,  " what  you 
say  about  the  way  most  of  us  live,  is  more  or  less 
true;  and  it  ought  not  to  be  true." 

" Of  course  it  is  true!  "  said  Tom. 

"  But  it  ought  not  to  be  true." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  One  must 
do  as  everybody  else  does;  I  suppose." 

"  Must  one  ?     That  is  the  very  question." 

"  What  can  you  do  else  ?  as  long  as  you  haven't 
your  bread  to  get." 


390  NOBODY. 

*'  I  believe  the  people  who  have  their  bread  to 
get  have  the  best  of  it.  But  there  must  be  some 
use  in  the  world,  I  suppose,  for  those  who  are 
under  no  such  necessity.  Did  you  ever  hear  that 
Miss — Lothrop's  family  were  strictly  religious?  " 

"No, — yes,  I  have,"  said  Tom.  "I  know  slie 
is." 

"  That  would  not  have  suited  you." 

"  Yes,  it  would.  Anything  she  did  would  have 
suited  me.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  religion, 
Philip." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  religion? " 

"I  don't  know — what  everybody  means  by  it. 
It  is  the  care  of  the  spiritual  part  of  our  nature,  I 
suppose." 

"  And  how  does  that  care  work?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  "It  works  altar 
cloths;  and  it  seems  to  mean  church-going,  and 
choral  music,  and  teaching  ragged  schools;  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't  understand  it;  but  I 
should  never  interfere  with  it.  It  seems  to  suit 
the  women  particularly." 

Again  there  fell  a  pause. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Dillwyn?  and  what 
brought  you  here  again  ?  "  Tom  began  now. 

"  I  came  to  pass  the  time,"  the  other  said 
musingly. 

"  Ah !     And  where  have  you  passed  it  ?  " 

"Along  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  part  of  the 
time.  At  Abazzia,  and  Sebenico,  and  the  islands." 

"  What's  in  all  that  ?  I  never  heard  of  Abazzia." 


THE  LAGOON  OF  VENICE.  391 

"The  world  is  a  large  place,"  said  Philip  ab 
sently. 

"  But  what  is  Abazzia  ?  " 

"  A  little  paradise  of  a  place,  so  sheltered  that  it 
is  like  a  nest  of  all  lovely  things.  Keally ;  it  has 
its  own  climate,  through  certain  favouring  circum 
stances;  and  it  is  a  hidden  little  nook  of  delight." 

"  Ah ! — What  took  you  to  the  shores  of  the  Adri 
atic  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Full  of  interest,"  said  Philip. 

"  Pray,  of  what  kind  ?  " 

"  Every  kind.  Historical,  industrial,  mechanical, 
natural,  and  artistic.  But  I  grant  you,  Tom,  that 
was  not  why  I  went  there.  I  went  there  to  get 
out  of  the  ruts  of  travel  and  break  new  ground. 
Like  you,  being  a  little  tired  of  going  round  in  a 
circle  forever.  And  it  occurs  to  me,  that  man 
must  have  been  made  for  somewhat  else  than  such 
a  purposeless  circle.  No  other  creature  is  a  burden 
to  himself." 

"  Because  no  other  creature  thinks,"  said  Tom. 

"  The  power  of  thought,  can  surely  be  no  final 
disadvantage." 

"  I  don't  see  what  it  amounts  to,"  Tom  returned. 
"  A  man  is  happy  enough,  I  suppose,  as  long  as 
he  is  busy  thinking  out  some  new  thing — invent 
ing,  creating,  discovering,  or  working  out  his 
discoveries ;  but  as  soon  as  he  has  brought  his  in 
vention  to  perfection  and  set  it  going,  he  is  tired 
of  it,  and  drives  after  something  else." 

"You  are  coming  to  Solomon's  judgment,"  said 


392  NOBODY. 

the  other,  leaning  back  upon  the  cushions  and 
clasping  his  hands  above  his  head, — "what  the 
preacher  says; — 'Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity.'  " 

"  Well,  so  are  you,"  said  Tom. 

"It  makes  me  ashamed." 

"Of  what?" 

"Myself." 

"Why?" 

"  That  I  should  have  lived  to  be  thirty-two  years 
old,  and  never  have  done  anything,  or  found  any 
way  to  be  of  any  good  in  the  world !  There  isn't 
a  butterfly  of  less  use  than  I !  " 

"  You  weren't  made  to  be  of  use,"  said  Tom. 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear  fellow,  you  have  said 
the  most  disparaging  thing,  I  hope,  that  ever  was 
said  of  me !  You  cannot  better  that  statement,  if 
you  think  an  hour !  You  mean  it  of  me  as  a  hu 
man  being,  I  trust  ?  not  as  an  individual  ?  In  the 
one  case  it  would  be  indeed  melancholy,  but  in 
the  other  it  would  be  humiliating.  You  take  the 
race,  not  the  personal  view.  The  practical  view 
is,  that  what  is  of  no  use  had  better  not  be  in 
existence.  Look  here — here  we  are  at  Murano;  I 
had  not  noticed  it.  Shall  we  land,  and  see  things 
by  moonlight  ?  or  go  back  to  Venice  ?  " 

"  Back,  and  have  dinner,"  said  Tom. 

"By  way  of  prolonging  this  existence,  which  to 
you  is  burdensome  and  to  me  is  unsatisfactory. 
Where  is  the  logic  of  that  ?  " 

But  they  went  back,  and  had  a  very  good  dinnei 
too. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

AN  OX   CART. 

IT  happened  not  far  from  this  same  time  in  the 
end  of  August,  when  Mr.  Dillwyn  and  Tom 
Caruthers  came  together  on  the  Piazzetta  of  St. 
Mark,  that  another  meeting  took  place  in  the  far 
away  regions  of  Shampuashuh.  A  train  going  to 
Boston  was  stopped  by  a  broken  bridge  ahead,  and 
its  passengers  discharged  in  one  of  the  small  towns 
along  the  coast,  to  wait  until  the  means  of  getting 
over  the  little  river  could  be  arranged.  People  on 
a  railway  journey  commonly  do  not  like  to  wait; 
it  was  different  no  doubt  in  the  days  of  stage 
coaches,  when  patience  had  some  exercise  fre 
quently  ;  now,  we  are  spoiled,  and  you  may  notice, 
that  ten  minutes  delay  is  often  more  than  can  be 
endured  with  complacency.  Our  fathers  and  moth 
ers  had  hours  to  wait  and  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Among  the  impatient  passengers  thrown  out  at 
Independence  were  two  specially  impatient. 

"What  on  earth  shall  we  do  with  ourselves?" 
said  the  lady. 

'393) 


394  NOBODY. 

"  Pity  the  breakdown  had  not  occurred  a  little 
further  on,"  said  the  gentleman.  "You  might  have 
visited  your  friend — or  Tom's  friend — Miss  Lothrop. 
We  are  just  a  few  miles  from  Shampuashuh." 

"  Shampuashuh  !  —  Miss  Lothrop  !  —  Was  that 
where  she  lived?  How  far,  George?" 

"A  few  miles — half  a  dozen,  perhaps." 

"  0  George,  let  us  get  horses  and  drive  there  !  " 

"But  then  you  may  not  catch  the  train  this 
evening  again." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  cannot  wait  here.  It  would  be 
a  great  deal  better  to  have  the  drive  and  see  the 
other  place.  Yes,  we  will  go  and  visit  her.  Get 
horses,  George,  please !  Quick.  This  is  terrible." 

"  Will  you  ask  for  their  hospitality  ?  " 

"Yes,  of  course.  They  would  be  delighted. 
That  is  just  what  the  better  sort  of  country  people 
like,  to  have  somebody  come  and  see  them.  Make 
haste,  George." 

With  a  queer  little  smile  on  his  face,  Mr.  Lenox 
however  did  as  he  was  desired.  A  wagon  was 
procured  without  very  much  delay,  in  which  they 
could  be  driven  to  Shampuashuh. 

It  was  a  very  warm  day,  and  the  travellers  had 
just  the  height  of  it.  Hot  sunbeams  poured  down 
upon  them;  the  level,  shadeless  country  through 
which  lay  their  way,  shewed  as  little  as  it  could 
of  the  attractive  features  which  really  belonged 
to  it.  The  lady  declared  herself  exceeded  by  the 
heat  and  dust;  the  gentleman  opined  they  might 
as  well  have  staid  in  Independence  where  they 


AN  Ox  CART.  395 

were.  Between  two  and  three  o'clock  they  en 
tered  the  long  green  street  of  Shampuashuh.  The 
sunbeams  seemed  tempered  there,  but  it  was  only 
a  mental  effect  produced  by  the  quiet  beauty  and 
airy  space  of  the  village  avenue,  and  the  shade 
of  great  elms  which  fell  so  frequently  upon  the 
wayside  grass. 

"  What  a  sweet  place !  "  cried  the  lady. 

"Comfortable  looking  houses — "  suggested  the 
gentleman. 

"  It  seems  cooler  here,"  the  lady  went  on. 

"  It  is  getting  to  a  cooler  time  of  day." 

"  Why  no,  George !  Three  o'clock  is  just  the 
crown  of  the  heat.  Don't  it  look  as  if  nobody 
ever  did  anything  here  ?  there's  no  stir  at  all." 

"My  eyes  see  different  tokens;  they  are  more 
versed  in  business  than  yours  are — naturally." 

"  What  do  your  eyes  see  ?  " — a  little  impatiently. 

"  You  may  notice  that  nothing  is  out  of  order. 
There  is  no  bit  of  fence  out  of  repair ;  and  never 
a  gate  hanging  upon  its  hinges.  There  is  no  care 
lessness.  Do  you  observe  the  neatness  of  this 
broad  street  ?  " 

"  What  should  make  it  unneat  ?  with  so  few 
travellers  ?  " 

"  Ground  is  the  last  thing  to  keep  itself  in  order. 
I  notice,  too,  the  neat  stacks  of  wood  in  the  wood 
sheds.  And  in  the  fields  we  have  passed,  the 
work  is  all  done,  up  to  the  minute;  nothing  hang 
ing  by  the  eyelids.  The  houses  are  full  of  win 
dows,  and  all  of  them  shining  bright." 


396  NOBODY. 

"You  might  be  a  newspaper  reporter,  George! 
Is  this  the  house,  we  are  coming  to  ?  It  is  quite 
a  large  house;  quite  respectable." 

"Did  you  think  that  little  girl  had  come  out 
of  any  but  a  respectable  house  ?  " 

"  Pshaw,  George  !  you  know  what  I  mean.  They 
are  very  poor  and  very  plain  people.  I  suppose 
we  might  go  straight  in  ?  " 

They  dismissed  their  vehicle,  so  burning  their 
ships,  and  knocked  at  the  front  door.  A  moment 
after  it  was  opened  by  Charity.  Her  tall  figure 
was  arrayed  in  a  homely  print  gown,  of  no  par 
ticular  fashion ;  a  little  shawl  was  over  her  shoul 
ders,  notwithstanding  the  heat,  and  on  her  head 
a  sunbonnet. 

"  Does  Miss  Lothrop  live  here  ?  " 

"  Three  of  us,"  said  Charity,  confronting  the  pair 
with  a  doubtful  face. 

"  Is  Miss  Lois  at  home  ?  " 

"  She's  as  near  as  possible  not,"  said  the  door 
keeper;  "but  I  guess  she  is.  You  may  come  in, 
and  I'll  see." 

She  opened  a  door  in  the  hall  which  led  to  a 
room  on  the  north  side  of  it,  corresponding  to 
Mrs.  Barclay's  on  the  south;  and  there  she  left 
them.  It  was  large  and  pleasant  and  cool,  if 
it  was  also  very  plain;  and  Mrs.  Lenox  sank 
into  a  rocking  chair,  repeating  to  herself  that 
it  was  'very  respectable.'  On  a  table  at  one 
side  lay  a  few  books,  which  drew  Mr.  Lenox's 
curiosity. 


AN  Ox  CART.  397 

"Ruskin's  'Modern  Painters'!"  he  exclaimed, 
looking  at  his  wife. 

"  Selections,  I  suppose." 

"No,  this  is  Vol.  5.  And  the  next  is  Thiers' 
1  Consulate  and  Empire ' ! " 

"Translation." 

" No.    Original.    And  the  « Old  Red  Sandstone.'" 

"What's  that?" 

"Hugh  Miller." 

"Who's  Hugh  Miller?" 

"He  is,  or  was,  a  gentleman  whom  you  would 
not  admit  to  your  society.  He  began  life  as  a 
Scotch  mason." 

Meanwhile,  Charity  going  back  to  the  living 
room  of  the  family,  found  there  Lois  busied  in 
arraying  old  Mrs.  Armadale  for  some  sort  of  ex 
cursion  ;  putting  a  light  shawl  about  her  and  draw 
ing  a  white  sunbonnet  over  her  cap.  Lois  herself 
was  in  an  old  nankeen  dress  with  a  cape,  and  had 
her  hat  on." 

"There's  some  folks  that  want  you,  Lois,"  her 
sister  announced. 

"Want  me!"  said  Lois.  "Who  is  it?  why  didn't 
you  tell  them  we  were  just  going  out  ?  " 

"  I  don't  usually  say  things,  without  I  know  that 
it's  so,"  responded  Charity.  "  Maybe  we're  going 
to  be  hindered." 

"We  must  not  be  hindered,"  returned  Lois. 
"Grandmother  is  ready,  and  Mrs.  Barclay  is 
ready,  and  the  cart  is  here.  We  must  go,  who 
ever  comes.  You  get  mother  into  the  cart,  and 


398  NOBODY. 

the  baskets  and  everything,  and  I'll  be  as  quick 
as  I  can." 

So  Lois  went  into  the  parlour.  A  great  surprise 
came  over  her  when  she  saw  who  was  there,  and 
with  the  surprise  a  slight  feeling  of  amusement; 
along  with  some  other  feeling,  she  could  not  have 
told  what,  which  put  her  gently  upon  her  mettle. 
She  received  her  visiters  frankly  and  pleasantly, 
and  also  with  a  calm  ease  which  at  the  moment 
was  superior  to  their  own.  So  she  heard  their 
explanation  of  what  had  befallen  them,  and  of 
their  resolution  to  visit  her;  and  a  slight  account 
of  their  drive  from  Independence;  all  which  Mrs. 
Lenox  gave  with  more  prolixity  than  she  had  in 
tended  or  previously  thought  necessary. 

"  And  now,"  said  Lois,  "  I  will  invite  you  to 
another  drive.  We  are  just  going  down  to  the 
Sound,  to  smell  the  salt  air  and  get  cooled  off. 
We  shall  have  supper  down  there  before  we  come 
home.  I  do  not  think  I  could  give  you  anything 
pleasanter,  if  I  had  the  choice ;  but  it  happens  that 
all  is  arranged  for  this.  Do  come  with  us;  it  will 
be  a  variety  for  you,  at  least." 

The  lady  and  gentleman  looked  at  each  other. 

"  It's  so  hot ! — "  objected  the  former. 

"It  will  be  cooler  every  minute  now,"  said 
Lois. 

"We  ought  to  take  the  train — when  it  comes 
along — " 

"You  cannot  tell  when  that  will  be,"  said  Mr. 
Lenox.  "  You  would  find  it  very  tedious  waiting 


AN  Ox  CART.  399 

at  the  station.  We  might  take  the  night  train. 
That  will  pass  about  ten  o'clock,  or  should." 

"But  we  should  be  in  your  way,  I  am  afraid," 
Mrs.  Lenox  went  on,  turning  to  Lois.  "You  are 
not  prepared  for  two  more  in  your  party." 

"Always ! "  said  Lois  smiling.  "  We  should  never 
think  ourselves  prepared  at  all,  in  Shampuashuh, 
if  we  were  not  ready  for  two  more  than  the  party. 
And  the  cart  will  hold  us  all." 

"The  cart !  "  cried  the  other. 

"Yes.  0  yes!  I  did  not  tell  you  that,"  said 
Lois,  smiling  more  broadly.  "We  are  going  in 
an  ox  cart.  That  will  be  a  novel  experience  for 
you  too." 

If  Mrs.  Lenox  had  not  half  accepted  the  invita 
tion  already,  I  am  not  sure  but  this  intimation 
would  have  been  too  much  for  her  courage.  How 
ever,  she  was  an  outwardly  well-bred  woman ;  that 
is,  like  so  many  others,  well-bred  when  there  was 
nothing  to  gain  by  being  otherwise;  and  so  she 
excused  her  hesitation  and  doubt  by  the  plea  of 
being  "so  dusty."  There  was  help  for  that;  Lois 
took  her  up  stairs  to  a  neat  chamber  and  furnished 
her  with  water  and  towels. 

It  was  new  experience  to  the  city  lady.  She 
took  note,  half  disdainfully,  of  the  plainness  of  the 
room ;  the  painted  floor,  yellow  and  shining,  which 
boasted  only  one  or  two  little  strips  of  carpet; 
the  common  earthenware  toilet  set;  the  rush-bot 
tomed  chairs.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  an 
old  mahogany  dressing  bureau;  a  neat  bed;  and 


400  NOBODY. 

water  and  towels  (coarse,  the  latter)  were  exceed 
ingly  fresh  and  sweet.  She  made  up  her  mind 
to  go  through  with  the  adventure,  and  rejoined 
her  husband  with  a  composed  mind. 

Lois  took  them  first  to  the  sitting  room,  where 
they  were  introduced  to  Mrs.  Barclay,  and  then 
they  all  went  out  at  the  back  door  of  the  house 
and  across  a  little  grassy  space,  to  a  gate  leading 
into  a  lane.  Here  stood  the  cart,  in  which  the  rest 
of  the  family  was  already  bestowed;  Mrs.  Arm- 
adale  being  in  an  arm  chair  with  short  legs,  while 
Madge  and  Charity  sat  in  the  straw  with  which 
the  whole  bottom  of  the  cart  was  spread.  A  tall, 
oldish  man,  with  an  ox  whip,  stood  leaning  against 
the  fence  and  surveying  things. 

"Are  we  to  go  in  there?''1  said  Mrs.  Lenox,  with 
perceptible  doubt. 

"  It's  the  only  carriage  we  have  to  offer  you,"  said 
Lois  merrily.    "  For  your  sake,  I  wish  we  had  a  bet 
ter;  for  my  own,  I  like  nothing  so  well  as  an  ox 
cart.     Mrs.  Barclay,  will  you  get  in  ?  and  stimulate 
this  lady's  courage  ?  " 

A  kitchen  chair  had  been  brought  out  to  facili 
tate  the  operation ;  and  Mrs.  Barclay  stepped  lightly 
in,  curled  herself  down  in  the  soft  bed  of  straw, 
and  declared  that  it  was  very  comfortable.  With 
an  expression  of  face  which  made  Lois  and  Madge 
laugh  for  weeks  after  when  they  recalled  it,  Mrs. 
Lenox  stepped  gingerly  in,  following,  and  took  her 
place. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Lois,  "  this  is  Mrs.  Lenox, 


AN  Ox  CART.  401 

whom  you  have  heard  me  speak  about.  And  these 
are  my  sisters,  Madge  and  Charity,  Mrs.  Lenox. 
And  grandmother,  this  is  Mr.  Lenox.  Now,  you 
see  the  cart  has  room  enough,"  she  added,  as  her 
self  and  the  gentleman  also  took  their  seats. 

"  Is  that  the  hull  of  ye  ?  "  inquired  now  the  man 
with  the  ox  whip,  coming  forward.  "  And  be  all 
your  stores  got  in  for  the  v'yage  ?  I  don't  want  to 
be  comin'  back  from  somewheres  about  half  way." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Sears,"  said  Lois.  "You  may 
drive  on.  Mother,  are  you  comfortable  ?  " 

And  then  there  was  a  "  whoa  "-ing  and  a  "  gee  "- 
ing  and  a  mysterious  flourishing  of  the  long  leathern 
whip,  with  which  the  driver  seemed  to  be  playing ; 
for  if  its  tip  touched  the  shoulders  of  the  oxen  it 
did  no  more,  though  it  waved  over  them  vigorously. 
But  the  oxen  understood,  and  pulled  the  cart  for 
ward;  lifting  and  setting  down  their  heavy  feet 
with  great  deliberation,  seemingly,  but  with  equal 
certainty,  and  swaying  their  great  heads  gently 
from  side  to  side  as  they  went.  Lois  was  so  much 
amused  at  her  guests'  situation  that  she  had  some 
difficulty  to  keep  her  features  in  their  due  calmness 
and  sobriety.  Mrs.  Lenox  eyed  the  oxen,  then  the 
contents  of  the  cart,  then  the  fields. 

"Slow  travelling!"  said  Lois  with  a  smile. 

"  Can  they  go  no  faster  ?  " 

"They  could  go  a  little  faster,  if  they  were  urged; 
but  that  would  spoil  the  comfort  of  the  whole 
thing.  The  entire  genius  of  a  ride  in  an  ox  cart  is, 
that  everybody  should  take  his  ease." 


402  NOBODY. 

"  Oxen  included  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lenox. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ! "  said  the  gentleman  smil 
ing.  "  Only,  ordinary  people  cannot  get  rid  easily 
of  the  notion  that  the  object  of  going  is  to  get 
somewhere." 

"That's  not  the  object  in  this  case,"  Lois  an 
swered  merrily.  "The  one  sole  object  is  fun." 

Mrs.  Lenox  said  nothing  more,  but  her  face  spoke 
as  plainly  as  possible,  And  you  call  tliis  fun ! 

"  I  arn  enjoying  myself  very  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay.  "  I  think  it  is  delightful." 

Something  in  her  manner  of  speech  made  Mr. 
Lenox  look  at  her.  She  was  sitting  next  him  on 
the  cart  bottom. 

"Perhaps  this  is  a  new  experience  also  to  you  ?  " 
he  said. 

"Delightfully  new.  Never  rode  in  an  ox  cart 
before  in  my  life ;  hardly  ever  saw  one,  in  fact.  We 
are  quite  out  of  the  race  and  struggle  and  uneasi 
ness  of  the  world,  don't  you  see?  There  comes 
down  a  feeling  of  repose  upon  one,  softly,  as  Long 
fellow  says — 

" « As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. — ' 

"  Only  I  should  say  in  this  case  it  was  from  the 
wing  of  an  angel." 

"Mrs.  Barclay,  you  are  too  poetical  for  an  ox 
cart,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "  If  we  began  to  be 
poetical,  I  am  afraid  the  repose  would  be  troubled." 


AN  Ox  CART.  403 

"  Twont  du  Poetry  no  harm  to  go  in  an  ox  cart," 
remarked  here  the  ox  driver. 

"I  agree  with  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 
"  Poetry  would  not  be  Poetry,  if  she  could  not  ride 
anywhere.  But  why  should  she  trouble  repose. 
Lois?" 

"Yes,"  added  Mr.  Lenox;  "I  was  about  to  ask 
that  question.  I  thought  poetry  was  always 
soothing  ?  Or  that  the  ladies  at  least  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  like  it  well  enough,"  said  Lois,  "  but  I  think 
it  is  apt  to  be  melancholy.  Except  in  hymns." 

"  Except  hymns !  "  said  Mrs.  Lenox.  "  I  thought 
hymns  were  always  sad.  They  deal  so  much  with 
death  and  the  grave." 

"  And  the  resurrection  !  "  said  Lois. 

"They  always  make  me  gloomy,"  the  lady  went 
on.  "The  resurrection!  do  you  call  that  a  lively 
subject  ?  " 

"Depends  on  how  you  look  at  it,  I  suppose," 
said  her  husband.  "But  Miss  Lothrop,  I  cannot 
recover  from  my  surprise  at  your  assertion  respect 
ing  non-religious  poetry." 

Lois  left  that  statement  alone.  She  did  not  care 
whether  he  recovered  or  not.  Mr.  Lenox,  however, 
was  curious. 

"  I  wish  you  would  shew  me  on  what  your  opin 
ion  is  founded,"  he  went  on  pleasantly. 

"  Yes,  Lois,  justify  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  I  could  not  do  that  without  making  quotations, 
Mrs.  Barclay,  and  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  remember 
enough.  Besides,  it  would  hardly  be  interesting." 


404  NOBODY. 

"To  me,  it  would,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "Where 
could  one  have  a  better  time?  The  oxen  go  so 
comfortably,  and  leisure  is  so  graciously  abundant." 

"  Pray  go  on,  Miss  Lothrop  !  "  Mr.  Lenox  urged. 

"  And  then  I  hope  you'll  go  on  and  prove  hymns 
lively,"  added  his  wife. 

The  conversation  which  followed  was  long 
enough  to  have  a  chapter  to  itself;  and  so  may 
be  comfortably  skipped  by  any  who  are  so  inclined. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

POETRY. 

"  pERHAPS  you  will  none  of  you  agree  with  me," 
1  Lois  said;  "and  I  do  not  know  much  poe 
try;  but  there  seems  to  me  to  run  an  undertone  of 
lament  and  weariness  through  most  of  what  I  know. 
Now  take  the  'Death  of  the  Flowers' — that  you 
were  reading  yesterday,  Mrs.  Barclay. — 

"  'The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no 
more.' 

"  That  is  the  tone  I  mean ;  a  sigh  and  a  regret." 
"But  the  'Death  of  the  Flowers'  is  exquisite,11 

pleaded  Mrs.  Lenox. 

"Certainly  it  is,"  said  Lois;  "but  is  it  gay? 

"  '  The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty 

stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 

on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen.' " 

r405) 


406  NOBODY. 

"How  you  remember  it,  Lois!"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  But  is  not  that  all  true  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Lenox. 

"  True  in  fact,"  said  Lois.  "  The  flowers  do  die. 
But  the  frost  does  not  fall  like  a  plague ;  and  no 
body  that  was  right  happy  would  say  so,  or  think  so. 
Take  Pringle's  'Afar in  the  Desert,'  Mrs.  Barclay — 

"  'When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And  sick  of  the  present  I  turn  to  the  past; 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years, 
And  shadows  of  things  that  are  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead; 
Bright  visions — ' 

"  I  forget  how  it  goes  on." 

"  But  that  is  as  old  as  the  hills  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Lenox. 

"  It  shews  what  I  mean." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  better  your  case  by 
coming  down  into  modern  time,  Mrs.  Lenox,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  Take  Tennyson — 

14  'With,  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 

Though  always  under  altered  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 
My  prospect  and  horizon  gone.'  " 

"Take  Byron,"  said  Lois. — 

"  'My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf, 

The  flower  and  fruit  of  life  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone.' " 

"  0  Byron  was  morbid,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox. 
"  Take  Moore,"  Mrs.  Barclay  went  on,  humouring 
the  discussion  on  purpose.     "  Do  you  remember? — 


POETRY.  407 

"  'My  birthday !  what  a  different  sound 

That  word  had  in  my  younger  years  ! 
And  now,  each  time  the  day  comes  round, 
Less  and  less  white  its  mark  appears.'  " 

"Well,  I  am  sure  that  is  true,"  said  the  other 
lady. 

"Do  you  remember  Kobert  Herrick's  lines  to 
daffodils  ? 

"  'Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon.' 

"  And  then, — 

"  'We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  yon; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  anything: 

We  die 
As  your  showers  do ;  and  dry 

Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again.' 

"  And  Waller  to  the  rose — 

"'Then  die!  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee. 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 

"And  Burns  to  the  daisy,"  said  Lois. — 

"  'There  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snowy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 


408  NOBODY. 

"  'Ev'n  thou  who  mournst  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date; 
Stern  Kuin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till,  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! '" 

"  0  you  are  getting  very  gloomy ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Lenox. 

"  Not  we,"  said  Lois  merrily  laughing,  "  but  your 
poets." 

"  Mend  your  cause,  Julia,"  said  her  husband. 

"  I  haven't  got  the  poets  in  my  head,"  said  the 
lady.  "  They  are  not  all  like  that.  I  am  very  fond 
of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning." 

"  The  *  cry  of  the  children  '  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  0  no  indeed !     She's  not  all  like  that." 

"  She  is  not  all  like  that.  There  is  Hector  in  the 
Garden." 

"  0  that  is  pretty !  "  said  Lois.  "  But  do  you  re 
member  how  it  runs  ? — 

"  '  Nine  years  old  !    The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come — ' " 

"Go  on,  Lois — "  said  her  friend.  And  the  re 
quest  being  seconded,  Lois  gave  the  whole,  ending 
with — 

"'Oh  the  birds,  the  tree,  the  ruddy 

And  white  blossoms,  sleek  with  rain  ! 
Oh  my  garden,  rich  with  pansies  ! 
Oh  my  childhood's  bright  romances  ! 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body, 
And  I  see  them  stir  again  ! 


POETRY.  409 

4  "And  despite  life's  changes — chances, 
And  despite  the  deathbell's  toll, 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming  ! 
Help,  some  angel !  stay  this  dreaming  ! 
As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
Sing  God's  patience  through  my  soul ! 

**  *  That  no  dreamer,  no  neglecter 
Of  the  present  work  unsped, 
I  may  wake  up  and  be  doing, 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing, 
Though  my  past  is  dead  as  Hector, 
And  though  Hector  is  twice  dead.'  " 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox  slowly,  "  of  course,  that 
is  all  true." 

"  From  her  standpoint,"  said  Lois.  "  That  is  ac 
cording  to  my  charge,  which  you  disallowed." 

"From  her  standpoint?"  repeated  Mr.  Lenox. 
"  May  I  ask  for  an  explanation  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  that  as  she  saw  things, — 

"  '  The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come.' " 

"  Well  of  course ! "  said  Mrs.  Lenox.  "  Does  not 
everybody  say  so  ?  " 

Nobody  answered. 

"Does  not  everybody  agree  in  that  judgment, 
Miss  Lothrop  ?  "  urged  the  gentleman. 

"  I  dare  say — everybody  looking  from  that  stand 
point,"  said  Lois.  "And  the  poets  write  accord 
ingly.  They  are  all  of  them  seeing  shadows." 

"  How  can  they  help  seeing  shadows  ?  "  returned 
Mrs.  Lenox  impatiently.  "  The  shadows  are  there ! " 


410  NOBODY. 

"Yes,"  said  Lois,  "the  shadows  aie  there."  But 
there  was  a  reservation  in  her  voice. 

"  Do  not  you,  then,  reckon  the  years  of  childhood 
the  happiest  ?  "  Mr.  Lenox  inquired. 

"No." 

"  But  you  cannot  have  had  much  experience 
of  life,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox,  "to  say  so.  I  don't 
see  how  they  can  help  being  the  happiest,  to  any 
one." 

"  I  believe,"  Lois  answered,  lowering  her  voice  a 
little,  "  that  if  we  cpuld  see  all,  we  should  see  that 
the  oldest  person  in  our  company  is  the  happiest 
here." 

The  eyes  of  the  strangers  glanced  towards  the 
old  lady  in  her  low  chair  at  the  front  of  the  ox 
cart.  In  her  wrinkled  face  there  was  not  a  line  of 
beauty,  perhaps  never  had  been;  in  spite  of  its 
sense  and  character  unmistakeable;  it  was  grave, 
she  was  thinking  her  own  thoughts;  it  was  weath 
er-beaten,  so  to  say,  with  the  storms  of  life;  and 
yet  there  was  an  expression  of  unruffled  repose 
upon  it,  as  calm  as  the  glint  of  stars  in  a  still  lake. 
Mrs.  Lenox's  look  was  curiously  incredulous,  scorn 
ful,  and  wistful,  together;  it  touched  Lois. 

"  One's  young  years  ought  not  to  be  one's  best," 
she  said. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  help  it?"  came  almost 
querulously.  Lois  thought,  if  she  were  Mr.  Lenox, 
she  would  not  feel  flattered. 

"  When  one  is  young,  one  does  not  know  dis 
appointment,"  the  other  went  on. 


POETRY.  411 

"And  when  one  is  old,  one  may  get  the  better 
of  disappointment." 

"When  one  is  young,  everything  is  fresh." 

"  I  think  things  grow  fresher  to  me  with  every 
year,"  said  Lois  laughing.  "  Mrs.  Lenox,  it  is  pos 
sible  to  keep  one's  youth." 

"Then  you  have  found  the  philosopher's  stone?" 
said  Mr.  Lenox. 

Lois's  smile  was  brilliant,  but  she  said  nothing  to 
that.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  that  she  had  talked 
more  than  her  share,  and  was  inclined  to  draw  back. 
Then  there  came  a  voice  from  the  arm  chair,  it  came 
upon  a  pause  of  stillness,  with  its  quiet,  firm  tones. 

" '  He  satisfieth  thy  mouth  with  good  things,  so 
that  thy  youth  is  renewed  like  the  eagle's.' " 

The  voice  came  like  an  oracle,  and  was  listened 
to  with  somewhat  of  the  same  silent  reverence. 
But  after  that  pause  Mr.  Lenox  remarked  that  he 
never  understood  that  comparison.  What  was  it 
about  an  eagle's  youth  ? 

"  Why,"  said  Lois,  "  an  eagle  never  grows  old  !  " 

"  Is  that  it !  But  I  wish  you  would  go  on  a  little 
further,  Miss  Lothrop.  You  spoke  of  hymn  writers 
having  a  different  standpoint,  and  of  their  words  as 
more  cheerful  than  the  utterances  of  other  poets.  Do 
you  know,  I  had  never  thought  other  poets  were 
not  cheerful,  until  now;  and  I  certainly  never  got 
the  notion  that  hymns  were  an  enlivening  sort  of 
literature.  I  thought  they  dealt  with  the  shadowy 
side  of  life  almost  exclusively." 

"WelU^-yes,  perhaps  they  do,"  said  Lois;  "but 


412  NOBODY. 

they  go  kindling  beacons  everywhere  to  light  it 
up;  and  it  is  the  beacons  you  see,  and  not  the 
darkness.  Now  the  secular  poets  turn  that  about. 
They  deal  with  the  brightest  things  they  can  find; 
but,  to  change  the  figure,  they  cannot  keep  the 
minor  chord  out  of  their  music." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lenox  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  the 
hymn  writers  do  not  use  the  minor  key?  They 
write  in  it,  or  they  sing  in  it,  more  properly, 
altogether!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lois,  into  whose  cheeks  a  slight  col 
our  was  mounting;  "yes,  perhaps;  but  it  is  with 
the  blast  of  the  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  the  cym 
bals  of  triumph.  There  may  be  the  confession  of 
pain,  but  the  cry  of  victory  is  there  too !  " 

"  Victory— over  what  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lenox  rather 
scornfully, 

U0ver  pain,  for  one  thing,"  said  Lois; — "and 
over  loss,  and  weariness,  and  disappointment." 

"You  will  have  to  confirm  your  words  by  ex 
amples,  again,  Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  We  do 
not  all  know  hymn  literature  as  well  as  you  do." 

"  /never  saw  anything  of  all  that  in  hymns,"  said 
Mrs.  Lenox.  "  They  always  sound  a  little,  to  me, 
Jike  dirges." 

Lois  hesitated.  The  cart  was  plodding  along 
through  the  smooth  lanes  at  the  rate  of  less  than 
a  mile  an  hour,  the  oxen  swaying  from  side  to  side 
with  their  slow,  patient  steps.  The  level  country 
around  lay  sleepily  still  under  the  hot  afternoon 


POETRY.  413 

sun ;  it  was  rarely  that  any  human  stir  was  to  be 
seen,  save  only  the  ox  driver  walking  beside  the 
cart.  He  walked  beside  the  cart,  not  the  oxen; 
evidently  lending  a  curious  ear  to  what  was  spoken 
in  the  company;  on  which  account  also  the  prog 
ress  of  the  vehicle  was  a  little  less  lively  than  it 
might  have  been. 

"  My  Cynthy's  writ  a  lot  o'  hymns,"  he  remarked 
just  here.  "  I  never  heerd  no  trumpets  in  'em, 
though.  I  don'  know  what  them  other  things  is." 

"Cymbals?"  said  Lois.  "They  are  round,  thin 
plates  of  metal,  Mr.  Sears,  with  handles  on  one  side 
to  hold  them  by;  and  the  player  clashes  them  to 
gether,  at  certain  parts  of  the  music — as  you  would 
slap  the  palms  of  your  hands." 

"  Doos,  hey  ?  I  want  to  know !  And  what  doos 
they  sound  like  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell,"  said  Lois.  "They  sound  shrill, 
and  sweet,  and  gay." 

"  But  that's  cur'ous  sort  o'  church  music !  "  said 
the  farmer. 

"Now,  Miss  Lothrop, — you  must  lei  us  hear  the 
figurative  cymbals,"  Mr.  Lenox  reminded  her. 

"  Do !  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  There  cannot  be  much  of  it,"  opined  Mrs.  Lenox. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Lois ;  "  there  is  so  much 
of  it  that  I  am  at  a  loss  where  to  begin. 

"  'I  love  yon  pale  blue  sky;  it  is  the  floor 
Of  that  glad  home  where  I  shall  shortly  be; 
A  home  from  which  I  shall  go  out  no  more, 
From  toil  and  grief  and  vanity  set  free. 


414  NOBODY. 

"'I  gaze  upon  yon  everlasting  arch, 

Up  which  the  bright  stars  wander  as  they  shin0' 
And,  as  I  mark  them  in  their  nightly  march, 
I  think  how  soon  that  journey  shall  be  mine  ! 

"  *  Yon  silver  drift  of  silent  cloud,  far  up 

In  the  still  heaven — through  you  my  pathway  lies: 
Yon  rugged  mountain  peak— how  soon  your  top 
Shall  I  behold  beneath  me,  as  I  rise  ! 

"  'Not  many  more  of  life's  slow-pacing  hours, 
Shaded  with  sorrow's  melancholy  hue; 
Oh  what  a  glad  ascending  shall  be  ours, 
Oh  what  a  pathway  up  yon  starry  blue ! 

"  'A  journey  like  Elijah's,  swift  and  bright, 
Caught  gently  upward  to  an  early  crown, 
In  heaven's  own  chariot  of  all-blazing  light, 
With  death  un tasted  and  the  grave  unknown.'  " 

"That's  not  like  any  hymn  I  ever  heard,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Lenox,  after  a  pause  had  followed 
the  last  words. 

"  That  is  a  hymn  of  Dr.  Bonar,"  said  Lois.  "  I 
took  it  merely  because  it  came  first  into  my  head. 
Long  ago  somebody  else  wrote  something  very 
like  it — 

"  '  Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust 
Of  my  divine  abode; 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts 
Where  I  shall  see  my  God. 

"  '  The  Father  of  unnumbered  lights 
Shall  there  his  beams  display; 
And  not  one  moment's  darkness  mix 
With  that  unvaried  day.' 

"  Do  you  hear  the  cymbals,  Mrs.  Lenox  ?  " 


POETRY.  415 

There  came  here  a  long  breath,  it  sounded  like 
a  breath  of  satisfaction  or  rest;  it  was  breathed  by 
Mrs.  Armadale.  In  the  stillness  of  their  progress, 
the  slowly  revolving  wheels  making  no  noise  on 
the  smooth  road,  and  the  feet  of  the  oxen  falling 
almost  soundlessly,  they  all  heard  it;  and  they  all 
felt  it.  It  was  nothing  less  than  an  echo  of  what 
Lois  had  been  repeating;  a  mute  "Even  so ! " — prob 
ably  unconscious  and  certainly  undesigned.  Mrs. 
Lenox  glanced  that  way.  There  was  a  far-off  look 
on  the  old  worn  face,  and  lines  of  peace  all  about 
the  lips  and  the  brow  and  the  quiet  folded  hands. 
Mrs.  Lenox  did  not  know  that  a  sigh  came  from 
herself  as  her  eyes  turned  away. 

Her  husband  eyed  the  three  women  curiously. 
They  were  a  study  to  him,  albeit  he  hardly  knew 
the  grammar  of  the  language  in  which  so  many 
things  seemed  to  be  written  on  their  faces.  Mrs. 
Armadale's  features,  if  strong,  were  of  the  homeliest 
kind;  work-worn  and  weather-worn,  to  boot;  yet 
the  young  man  was  filled  with  reverence  as  he 
looked  from  the  hands  in  their  cotton  gloves, 
folded  on  her  lap,  to  the  hard  features  shaded 
and  framed  by  the  white  sun  bonnet.  The  abso 
lute,  profound  calm  was  imposing  to  him;  the 
still  peace  of  the  spirit  was  attractive.  He  looked 
at  his  wife;  and  the  contrast  struck  even  him. 
Her  face  was  murky.  It  was  impatience,  in  part, 
he  guessed,  which  made  it  so;  but  why  was  she 
impatient  ?  It  was  cloudy  with  unhappiness ;  and 
she  ought  to  be  very  happy,  Mr.  Lenox  thought; 


416  NOBODY. 

had  she  not  everything  in  the  world  that  she 
cared  about?  How  could  there  be  a  cloud  of 
unrest  and  discontent  on  her  brow,  and  those 
displeased  lines  about  her  lips?  His  eye  turned 
to  Lois,  and  lingered,  as  long  as  it  dared.  There 
was  peace  too,  very  sunny,  and  a  look  of  lofty 
thought,  and  a  brightness  that  seemed  to  know 
no  shadow;  though  at  the  moment  she  was  not 
smiling. 

"Are  you  not  going  on,  Miss  Lothrop?"  he  said 
gently;  for  he  felt  Mrs.  Barclay's  eye  upon  him. 
And  besides,  he  wanted  to  provoke  the  girl  to 
speak  more. 

"  I  could  go  on  till  I  tired  you,"  said  Lois. 

"I  do  not  think  you  could,"  he  returned  pleasant 
ly.  "  What  can  we  do  better  ?  We  are  in  a  most 
pastoral  frame  of  mind,  with  .pastoral  surroundings; 
poetry  could  not  be  better  accompanied." 

"  When  one  gets  excited  in  talking,  perhaps 
one  had  better  stop,"  Lois  said  modestly. 

"On  the  contrary!  Then  the  truth  will  come 
out  best." 

Lois  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  uWe  shall 
soon  be  at  the  shore.  Look, — this  way  we  turn 
down  to  go  to  it,  and  leave  the  high  road." 

"  Then  make  haste !  "  said  Mr.  Lenox.  "  It  will 
sound  nowhere  better  than  here." 

"Yes,  go  on,"  said  his  wife  now,  raising  her 
heavy  eyelids." 

"  Well " — said  Lois.  "  Do  you  remember  Bry 
ant's  'Thanatopsis'?" 


POETRY.  417 

"Of  course.  That  is  bright  enough  at  any 
rate,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes !     What  is  the  matter  with  it  ?  " 

"Dark— and  earthly." 

"I  don't  think  so  at  all!"  cried  Mrs.  Lenox, 
now  becoming  excited  in  her  turn.  "  What  would 
you  have  ?  I  think  it  is  beautiful !  And  elevated ; 
and  hopeful." 

"  Can  you  repeat  the  last  lines  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  dare  say  you  can.  You  seem  to  me 
to  have  a  library  of  poets  in  your  head." 

"  I  can,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  here,  putting  in  her 
word  at  this  not  very  civil  speech.  And  she  went 
on. — 

"  « The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.' " — 

"Well,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox.    "That  is  true." 
"Is  it  cheerful?"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.     "But  that 
is  not  the  last. — 

'"So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon;  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.' " 


418  NOBODY. 

"  There ! "  Mrs.  Lenox  exclaimed.  "  What  would 
you  have,  better  than  that  ?  " 

Lois  looked  at  her,  and  said  nothing.  The  look 
irritated  husband  and  wife,  in  different  ways;  her 
to  impatience,  him  to  curiosity. 

"  Have  you  got  anything  better,  Miss  Lothrop  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"You  can  judge.  Compare  that  with  a  dying 
Christian's  address  to  his  soul. — 

"  'Deathless  principle,  arise; 
Soar,  them  native  of  the  skies. 
Pearl  of  price,  by  Jesus  bought, 
To  his  glorious  likeness  wrought, 
Go,  to  shine  before  the  throne; 
Deck  the  mediatorial  crown; 
Go,  his  triumphs  to  adorn; 
Made  for  God,  to  God  return.' 

*'  I  won't  give  you  the  whole  of  it. — 

"  'Is  thy  earthly  house  distressed? 
Willing  to  retain  her  guest? 
'Tis  not  thou,  but  she,  must  die; 
Fly,  celestial  tenant,  fly. 
Burst  thy  shackles,  drop  thy  clay, 
Sweetly  breathe  thyself  away: 
Singing,  to  thy  crown  remove, 
Swift  of  wing,  and  fired  with  love. 

" '  Shudder  not  to  pass  the  stream: 
Venture  all  thy  care  on  him; 
Him  whose  dying  love  and  power  N 

Stilled  its  tossing,  hushed  its  roar. 
Safe  is  the  expanded  wave, 
Gentle  as  a  summer's  eve; 
Not  one  object  of  his  care 
Ever  suffered  shipwreck  there.'  " 


POETRY.  419 

"  That  aint  no  hymn  in  the  book,  is  it  ?  "  inquired 
the  ox  driver.  "Haw! — go  'long.  That  aint  in 
the  book,  is  it,  Lois  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  one  we  use  in  church,  Mr.  Sears." 

"  I  wisht  it  was ! — like  it  fust  rate.  Never  heerd 
it  afore  in  my  life." 

"There's  as  good  as  that  in  the  church  book," 
remarked  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"Yes,"  said  Lois;  "I  like  Wesley's  hymn  even 
better.— 

"  'Come,  let  us  join  our  friends  above, 

That  have  obtained  the  prize; 
And  on  the  eagle  wings  of  love 
To  joys  celestial  rise. 


" '  One  army  of  the  living  God, 
To  his  command  we  bow; 
Part  of  his  host  have  crossed  the  flood, 
And  part  are  crossing  now. 


11 '  His  militant  embodied  host, 

With  wishful  looks  we  stand, 

And  long  to  see  that  happy  coast, 

And  reach  the  heavenly  land. 

" '  E'en  now,  by  faith,  we  join  our  hands 

With  those  that  went  before; 
And  greet  the  blood-besprinkled  bands 
On  the  eternal  shore.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

LONG    CLAMS. 

THERE  was  a  soft  ring  in  Lois's  voice;  it  might 
be  an  echo  of  the  trumpets  and  cymbals  of 
which  she  had  been  speaking.  Yet  not  done  for 
effect;  it  was  unconscious,  and  delicate  as  inde 
scribable,  for  which  reason  it  had  the  greater 
power.  The  party  remained  silent  for  a  few  min 
utes,  all  of  them;  during  which  a  killdeer  on  the 
fence  uttered  his  little  shout  of  gratulation;  and 
the  wild,  salt  smell  coming  from  the  Sound  and  the 
not  distant  ocean,  joined  with  the  silence,  and 
Lois's  hymn,  gave  a  peculiar  impression  of  solitude 
and  desolation  to  at  least  one  of  the  party.  The 
cart  entered  an  enclosure  and  halted  before  a  small 
building  at  the  edge  of  the  shore,  just  above  high 
water  mark.  There  were  several  such  buildings 
scattered  along  the  shore  at  intervals,  some  en 
closed,  some  not.  The  whole  breadth  of  the  Sound 
lay  in  view,  blinking  under  the  summer  sun;  yet 
the  air  was  far  fresher  here  than  it  had  been  in  the 
village.  The  tide  was  half  out;  a  wide  stretch  of 
wet  sand,  with  little  pools  in  the  hollows,  iriter- 


LONG  CLAMS.  421 

vened  between  the  rocks  and  the  water ;  the  rocks 
being  no  magnificent  buttresses  of  the  land,  but 
large  and  small  boulders  strewn  along  the  shore 
edge,  hung  with  seaweed  draperies;  and  where 
there  were  not  rocks  there  was  a  growth  of  rushes 
on  a  mud  bottom.  The  party  were  helped  out  of 
the  cart  one  by  one,  and  the  strangers  surveyed 
the  prospect. 

"  *  Afar  in  the  desert,'  this  is,  I  declare,'*  said  the 
gentleman. 

"Might  as  well  be,"  echoed  his  wife.  "What 
ever  do  you  come  here  for?"  she  said,  turning 
to  Lois;  "and  what  do  you  do  when  you  are 
here?" 

"  Get  some  clams  and  have  supper." 

"  Clams  1 " — with  an  inimitable  accent.  "  Where 
do  you  get  clams  ?  " 

"  Down  yonder — at  the  edge  of  the  rushes." 

"  Who  gets  them  ?  and  how  do  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  shall  get  them  to-day.  0  we  do  it 
with  a  hoe." 

Lois  stayed  for  no  more,  but  ran  in.  The  in 
terior  room  of  the  house,  which  was  very  large  for 
a  bathing  house,  was  divided  in  two  by  a  partition. 
In  the  inner,  smaller  room,  Lois  began  busily  to 
change  her  dress.  On  the  walls  hung  a  number 
of  bathing  suits  of  heavy  flannel,  one  of  which  she 
appropriated.  Charity  came  in  after  her. 

"  You  aint  a ,  goin'  for  clams,  Lois  ?  Well,  I 
wouldn't,  if  I  was  you." 

"Why  not?" 


422  NOBODY. 

"  I  wouldn't  make  myself  such  a  sight,  for  folks 
to  see." 

*'I  don't  at  all  do  it  for  folks  to  see,  but  that 
folks  may  eat.  We  have  brought  'em  here,  and 
now  we  must  give  them  something  for  supper." 

"  Are  you  goin'  with  bare  feet  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  Lois  laughing.  "  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  spoil  my  best  pair  of  shoes 
for  vanity's  sake  ?  "  And  she  threw  off  shoes  and 
stockings  as  she  spoke,  and  shewed  a  pair  of 
pretty  little  white  feet  which  glanced  coquettishly 
under  the  blue  flannel. 

"  Lois,  what's  brought  these  folks  here  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  I  wish  they'd  staid  where  they  belong.  That 
woman's  just  turning  up  her  nose  at  every  blessed 
thing  she  sees." 

"  It  won't  hurt  the  Sound !  "  said  Lois  laughing. 

"What  did  they  come  for?" 

"I  can't  tell;  but,  Charity,  it  will  never  do  to 
let  them  go  away  feeling  they  got  nothing  by 
coming.  So  you  have  the  kettle  boiled,  will  you, 
and  the  table  all  ready — and  I'll  try  for  the  clams." 

"They  won't  like 'em." 

"Can't  help  that." 

"  And  what  am  I  going  to  do  with  Mr.  Sears  ?  " 

"  Give  him  his  supper  of  course." 

"Along  with  all  the  others?" 

"You  must.     You  cannot  set  two  tables." 

"  There's  aimt  Anne ! "  exclaimed  Charity ;  and 
in  the  next  minute  aunt  Anne  came  round  to  them 


LONG  CLAMS.  423 

by  .the  front  steps;  for  each  half  of  the  bathing 
house  had  its  own  door  of  approach,  as  well  as  a 
door  of  communication.  Mrs.  Marx  came  in,  sur 
veyed  Lois,  and  heard  Charity's  statement. 

"  These  things  will  happen  in  the  best  regulated 
families,''  she  remarked,  beginning  also  to  loosen 
her  dress. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  aunt  Anne  ?  " 

"  Going  after  clams,  with  Lois.  We  shall  want 
a  bushel  or  less ;  and  we  can't  wait  till  the  moon 
rises,  to  eat  'em." 

"And  how  am  I  going  to  set  the  table,  with 
them  all  there  ?  " 

Mrs.  Marx  laughed.  "  I  expect  they're  like  cats 
in  a  strange  garret.  Set  your  table  just  as  usual, 
Gharry;  push  'em  out  o'  the  way  if  they  get  in 
it.  Now  then,  Lois. — " 

And  slipping  down  the  steps  and  away  oif  to 
the  stretch  of  mud  where  the  rushes  grew,  two  ex 
traordinary  flannel-clad,  barefooted  figures,  topped 
with  sunbonnets  and  armed  with  hoes  and  baskets, 
were  presently  seen  to  be  very  busy  there  about 
something.  Charity  opened  the  door  of  communi 
cation  between  the  two  parts  of  the  house,  and 
surveyed  the  party.  Mrs.  Barclay  sat  on  the  step 
outside,  looking  over  the  plain  of  waters,  with  her 
head  in  her  hand.  Mrs.  Armadale  was  in  a  rock 
ing  chair,  just  within  the  door,  placidly  knitting. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lenox,  somewhat  further  back,  seemed 
not  to  know  just  what  to  do  with  themselves ;  and 
Madge,  holding  a  little  aloof,  met  her  sister's  eye 


424  NOBODY. 

with  an  expression  of  despair  and  doubt.  Outside, 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps  where  Mrs.  Barclay  sat, 
lounged  the  ox  driver. 

"Ben  here  afore?"  he  asked  confidentially  of 
the  lady. 

"Yes,  once  or  twice.  I  never  came  in  an  ox 
cart  before." 

"  I  guess  you  haint,"  he  replied,  chewing  a  blade 
of  rank  grass  which  he  had  pulled  for  the  purpose. 
"  My  judgment  isVe  had  a  fust  rate  entertainment, 
comin'  down." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"Now  in  anythin'  but  an  ox  cart,  you  couldn't 
ha'  had  it." 

"No,  not  so  well,  certainly." 

"  I  couldn't  ha'  had  it,  anyway,  withouten  we'd 
come  so  softly.  I  declare,  I  believe  them  critters 
stepped  soft  o'  purpose.  It's  better'n  a  book,  to 
hear  that  girl  talk,  now,  aint  it  ?  " 

"Much  better  than  many  books." 

"She's  got  a  lot  o'  'em  inside  her  head.  That 
beats  me!  She  allays  was  smart,  Lois  was;  but 
I'd  no  idee  she  was  so  full  o'  book  larnin'.  Books 
is  a  great  thing !  "  And  he  heaved  a  sigh. 

"Do  you  have  time  to  read  much  yourself,  sir?" 

"Depends  on  the  book,"  he  said  with  a  bit  of 
a  laugh.  "Accordin'  to  that,  I  get  much  or  little. 
No;  in  these  here  summer  days  a  man  can't  do 
much  at  books ;  the  evening  is  short,  you  see,  and 
the  days  is  long;  and  the  days  is  full  o'  work. 
The  winter's  the  time  for  readin'.  I  got  hold  o' 


LONG  CLAMS.  425 

a  book  last  winter  that  was  wuth  a  great  deal 
o'  time,  and  got  it.  I  never  liked  a  book  better. 
That  was  Rollin's  Ancient  History." 

"Ah?"  said  Mrs.  'Barclay.  "So  you  enjoyed 
that?" 

"Ever  read  it?" 

"Yes." 

" Didn't  you  enjoy  it?" 

"  I  believe  I  like  Modern  history  better." 

"  I've  read  some  o'  that  too,"  said  he  meditatively. 
"It  aint  so  different.  'Seems  to  me,  folks  is  allays 
pretty  much  alike;  only  we  call  things  by  different 
names.  Alexander  the  Great,  now, — he  warn't  much 
different  from  Napoleon  Buonaparte." 

"Wasn't  he  a  better  man?"  inquired  Mr.  Lenox 
putting  his  head  out  at  the  door. 

"Wall,  I  don'  know;  it's  difficult,  you  know, 
to  judge  of  folks'  insides;  but  I  don't  make  much 
count  of  a  man  that  drinks  -himself  to  death  at 
thirty." 

"  Haven't  you  any  drinking  in  Shampuashuh  ?  " 

"  Wall,  there  aint  much ;  and  what  there  is,  is 
done  in  the  dark,  like.  You  won't  find  no  rum 
shops  open." 

"  Indeed !  How  long  has  the  town  been  so 
distinguished  ?  " 

"  I  guess  it's  five  year.  I  know  it  is ;  for  it  was 
just  afore  we  put  in  our  last  President.  Then  we 
voted  liquor  shouldn't  be  president  in  Shampuashuh/' 

"  Do  you  get  along  any  better  for  it  ?  " 

"Wall"— slowly— "I  should  say  we  did.     There 


426  NOBODY. 

aint  no  quarrellin'  nor  fightin',  nor  anybody  took 
up  for  the  jail,  nor  no  one  livin'  in  the  poor  house — 
'thout  it's  some  tramp  on  his  way  to  some  place 
where  there  is  liquor.  An'  he  don't  want  to 
stay." 

"  What  are  those  two  figures  yonder  among  the 
grass?"  Mrs.  Lenox  now  asked;  she  also  having 
come  out  of  the  house  in  search  of  objects  of  in 
terest,  the  interior  offering  none. 

"Them?"  said  Mr.  Sears.  "Them's  Lois  and  her 
aunt.  Their  baskets  is  gettin'  heavy,  too.  I'll 
make  the  fire  for  ye,  Miss  Charity,"  he  cried,  lift 
ing  his  voice;  and  therewith  disappeared. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  Mrs.  Lenox  asked 
in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Digging  clams,"  Mrs.  Barclay  informed  her. 

" Digging  clams !     How  do  they  dig  them? " 

"With  a  hoe,  I  believe." 

"  I  ought  to  go  and  offer  my  services,"  said  the 
gentleman,  rising. 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  You 
could  not  go  without  plunging  into  wet,  soft  mud; 
the  clams  are  found  only  there,  I  believe." 

"How  do  they  go?" 

"  Barefoot — dressed  for  it." 

"  ZTndressed  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox.  "  Barefoot 
in  the  mud!  Could  you  have  conceived  it!  " 

"  They  say  the  mud  is  warm,"  Mrs.  Barclay  re 
turned,  keeping  back  a  smile. 

"But  how  horrid!" 

"I  am  told  it  is  very  good  sport.     The  clams  are 


LONG  CLAMS.  427 

shy,  and  endeavour  to  take  flight  when  they  hear 
the  strokes  of  the  hoe ;  so  that  it  comes  to  a  trial  of 
speed  between  the  pursuer  and  the  pursued;  which 
is  quite  exciting." 

"I  should  think,  if  I  could  see  a  clam,  I  could 
pick  it  up,"  Mrs.  Lenox  said  scornfully. 

"Yes;  you  cannot  see  them.'* 

"Do  you  mean,  they  run  away  under  ground?" 

"So  I  am  told." 

"How  can  they?  they  have  no  feet." 

Mrs.  Barclay  could  not  help  laughing  now,  and 
confessed  her  ignorance  of  the  natural  powers  of 
the  clam  family. 

"Where  is  that  old  man  gone  to  make  his  fire? 
didn't  he  say  h^  was  going  to  make  a  fire?  " 

"Yes;  in  the  cooking  house." 

"Where  is  that?"  And  Mrs.  Lenox  came  down 
the  steps  and  went  to  explore.  A  few  yards  from 
the  bathing  house,  just  within  the  enclosure  fence, 
she  found  a  small  building,  hardly  two  yards  square, 
but  thoroughly  built  and  possessing  a  chimney. 
The  door  stood  open;  within  was  a  cooking  stove, 
in  which  fire  was  roaring;  a  neat  pile  of  billets  of 
wood  for  firing,  a  tea-kettle,  a  large  iron  pot,  and 
several  other  kitchen  utensils. 

"What  is  this  for?"  inquired  Mrs.  Lenox,  look 
ing  curiously  in. 

"  Wall,  I  guess  we're  goin'  to  hev  supper  by  and 
by;  ef  the  world  don't  come  to  an  end  sooner  than 
I  expect,  we  will,  sure.  I'm  a  gettin'  ready." 

"  And  is  this  place  built  and  arranged  just  for  the 


428  NOBODY. 

sake  of  having  supper,  as  you  call  it,  down  here 
once  in  a  while  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  be  no  better  arrangement,"  said  Mr. 
Sears.  "  This  stove  draws  first-rate." 

"But  this  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  should 
think  they  would  take  their  clams  home  and  have 
them  there." 

"  Some  folks  doos,"  returned  Mr.  Sears.  "  These 
here  folks  knows  what's  good.  Wait  till  you  see. 
I  tell  you!  long  clams,  fresh  digged,  and  b'iled  as 
soon  as  they're  fetched  in,  is  somethin'  you  never 
see  beat." 

"  Long  clams,"  repeated  the  lady.  "  Are  they  not 
the  usual  sort  ?  " 

"  Depends  on  what  you're  used  to.  These  is  us 
ual  here,  and  I'm  glad  ori't.  Round  clams  aint  no- 
wheres  alongside  o'  'em." 

He  went  off  to  fill  the  kettle,  and  the  lady  re 
turned  slowly  round  the  house  to  the  steps  and  the 
door,  which  were  on  the  sea  side.  Mr.  Lenox  had 
gone  in  and  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Armadale;  Mrs. 
Barclay  was  in  her  old  position  on  the  steps  look 
ing  out  to  sea.  There  was  a  wonderful  light  of 
westering  rays  on  land  and  water;  a  rich  gleam 
from  brown  rock  and  green  sea- weed;  a  glitter  and 
fresh  sparkle  on  the  waves  of  the  incoming  tide; 
an  indescribable  freshness  and  life  in  the  air  and  in 
the  light ;  a  delicious  invigoration  in  the  salt  breath 
of  the  ocean.  Mrs.  Barclay  sat  drinking  it  all  in, 
like  one  who  had  been  long  athirst.  Mrs.  Lenox 
stood  looking,  half  cognisant  of  what  was  before 


LONG  CLAMS.  429 

her,  more  than  half  impatient  and  scornful  of  it; 
yet  even  on  her  the  witchery  of  the  place  and  the 
scene  was  not  without  its  effect. 

"Do  you  come  here  often?"  she  asked  Mrs. 
Barclay.  . 

"Never  so  often  as  I  would  like." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  tired  to  death !  " 

Then,  as  Mrs.  Barclay  made  no  answer,  she  looked 
at  her  watch. 

"  Our  train  is  not  till  ten  o'clock,"  she  remarked. 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  said  the  other.  And  then  there 
was  silence;  and  the  sun's  light  grew  more  wester 
ing,  and  the  sparkle  on  earth  and  water  more  fresh, 
and  the  air  only  more  and  more  sweet ;  till  two  fig 
ures  were  discerned  approaching  the  bathing  house, 
carrying  hoes  slung  over  their  shoulders  and  bas 
kets,  evidently  filled,  in  their  hands.  They  went 
round  the  house  towards  the  cook  house;  and  Mrs. 
Barclay  came  down  from  her  seat  and  went  to  meet 
them  there,  Mrs.  Lenox  following. 

Two  such  figures!  Sunbonnets  shading  merry 
faces,  flushed  with  business;  blue  flannel  bathing 
suits  draping  very  unpicturesquely  the  persons, 
bare  feet  stained  with  mud, — baskets  full  of  the 
delicate  fish  they  had  been  catching. 

"  What  a  quantity !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"Yes,  because  I  had  aunt  Anne  to  help.  We 
cannot  boil  them  all  at  once,  but  that  is  all  the 
better.  They  will  come  hot  and  hot." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  cook  all 
those  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Lenox  incredulously. 


430  NOBODY. 

"There  will  not  be  one  too  many,"  said  Lois. 
"  You  do  not  know  long  clams  yet." 

"They  are  ugly  things!"  said  the  other  with  a 
look  of  great  disgust  into  the  basket.  "  I  don't 
think  I  could  touch  them." 

"There's  no  obligation,"  responded  here  Mrs. 
Marx.  She  had  thrown  one  basketful  into  a  huge 
pan  and  was  washing  them  free  from  the  mud  and 
sand  of  their  original  sphere.  "  It's  a  free  country. 
But  looks  don't  prove  much — neither  at  the  shore 
nor  anywhere  else.  An  ugly  shell  often  covers  a 
good  fish.  So  I  find  it;  and  t'other  way." 

"  How  do  you  get  them  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Lenox 
who  also  came  now  to  the  door  of  the  cook  house. 
Lois  made  her  escape.  "  I  see  you  make  use  of 
hoes." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Marx,  throwing  her  clams 
about  in  the  water  with  great  energy;  "we  dig  for 
'em.  See  where  the  clam  lives,  and  then  drive  at 
him,  and  don't  be  slow  about  it;  and  then  when 
the  clam  spits  at  you,  you  know  you're  on  his 
heels — or  on  his  track,  I  should  say ;  and  you  take 
care  of  your  eyes  and  go  ahead,  till  you  catch  up 
with  him;  and  then  you've  got  him.  And  every 
one  you  throw  into  your  basket  you  feel  gladder 
and  gladder;  in  fact,  as  the  basket  grows  heavy 
your  heart  grows  light.  And  that's  diggin'  for 
long  clams." 

"The  best  part  of  it  is  the  hunt,  isn't  it?" 

"I'll  take  your  opinion  on  that  after  supper." 

Mr.  Lenox  laughed,  and  he  and  his  wife  saun- 


LONG  CLAMS.  431 

tered  round  to  the  front  again.  The  freshness,  the 
sweetness,  the  bright  rich  colouring  of  sky  and 
water  and  land,  the  stillness,  the  strangeness,  the 
novelty,  all  moved  Mr.  Lenox  to  say, 

"  I  would  not  have  missed  this  for  a  hundred 
dollars ! " 

"  Missed  what  ?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"  This  whole  afternoon." 

"  It's  one  way  that  people  live,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  for  they  really  do  live ;  there  is  no  stag 
nation;  that  is  one  thing  that  strikes  me." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  buy  a  farm  here,  and  settle 
down  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lenox  scornfully.  "  Live  on 
hymns  and  long  clams  ?  " 

Meanwhile  the  interior  of  the  bathing  house 
was  changing  its  aspect.  Part  of  the  partition  of 
boards  had  been  removed  and  a  long  table  impro 
vised,  running  the  length  of  the  house,  and  made 
of  planks  laid  on  trestles.  White  cloths  hid  the 
rudeness  of  this  board,  and  dishes  and  cups  and 
viands  were  giving  it  a  most  hospitable  look.  A 
whiif  of  coffee  aroma  came  now  and  then  through 
the  door  at  the  back  of  the  house,  which  opened 
near  the  place  of  cookery;  piles  of  white  bread 
and  brown  gingerbread,  and  golden  butter  and 
rosy  ham,  and  new  cheese,  made  a  most  abundant 
and  inviting  display;  and  after  the  guests  were 
seated,  Mr.  Sears  came  in  bearing  a  great  dish 
of  the  clams,  smoking  hot. 

Well,  Mrs.  Lenox  was  hungry,  through  the  com 
bined  effects  of  salt  air  and  an  early  dinner;  she 


432  NOBODY. 

found  bread  and  butter  and  coffee  and  ham  most 
excellent,  but  looked  askance  at  the  dish  of  clams; 
which  however,  she  saw  emptied  with  astonishing 
rapidity.  Noticing  at  last  a  striking  heap  of  shells 
beside  her  husband's  plate,  the  lady's  fastidiousness 
gave  way  to  curiosity ;  and  after  that, — it  was  well 
that  another  big  dishful  was  coming,  or  somebody 
would  have  been  obliged  to  go  short. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  evening  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lenox 
took  the  night  train  to  Boston. 

"I  never  passed  a  pleasanter  afternoon  in  my 
life,"  was  the  gentleman's  comment  as  the  train 
started. 

"  Pretty  faces  go  a  great  way  always  with  you 
men  !  "  answered  his  wife. 

"There  is  something  more  than  a  pretty  face 
there.  And  she  is  improved, — changed,  somehow, 
— since  a  year  ago.  What  do  you  think  now  of 
your  brother's  choice,  Julia  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  been  his  ruin ! "  said  the  lady 
violently. 

"  I  declare,  I  doubt  it.  I  am  afraid  he'll  never 
find  a  better.  I  am  afraid  you  have  done  him 
mistaken  service." 

"  George,  this  girl  is  nobody"  > 

"  She  is  a  lady.  And  she  is  intelligent,  and  she 
is  cultivated,  and  she  has  excellent  manners.  I 
see  no  fault  at  all  to  be  found.  Tom  does  not 
need  money." 

"  She  is  nobody,  nevertheless,  George !  It  would 
have  been  miserable  for  Tom  to  lose  all  the  advan- 


LONG  CLAMS.  433 

tage  he  is  going  to  have  with  his  wife,  and  to 
marry  this  girl  whom  no  one  knows,  and  who 
knows  nobody." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  poor  Tom  ! " 

"George  you  are  very  provoking.  Tom  will 
live  to  thank  mamma  and  me  all  his  life." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  don't  believe  it  ?  I  am  glad 
to  see  shea  all  right,  anyhow.  I  was  afraid  at  the 
Isles  she  might  have  been  bitten." 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  returned 
his  wife  sharply.  "  Women  don't  shew.  I  think 
she  was  taken  with  Tom." 

"I  hope  not!"  said  the  gentleman;  "that's  all 
I  have  to  say." 


CHAPTER   XXXII . 

A  VISITER. 

A  FTER  that  summer  day,  the  time  sped  on 
/I  smoothly  at  Shampuashuh;  until  the  autumn 
coolness  had  replaced  the  heat  of  the  dog  days, 
and  hay  harvest  and  grain  harvest  were  long  over, 
and  there  began  to  be  a  suspicion  of  frost  in  the 
air.  Lois  had  gathered  in  her  pears,  and  was  gar 
nering  her  apples.  There  were  two  or  three  fa 
mous  apple  trees  in  the  Lothrop  old  garden,  the 
fruit  of  which  kept  sound  and  sweet  all  through  the 
winter  and  was  very  good  to  eat. 

One  fair  day  in  October,  Mrs.  Barclay,  wanting 
to  speak  with  Lois,  was  directed  to  the  garden  and 
sought  her  there.  The  day  was  as  mild  as  sum 
mer,  without  summer's  passion,  and  without  spring's 
impulses  of  hope  and  action.  A  quiet  day;  the  air 
was  still;  the  light  was  mellow,  not  brilliant;  the 
sky  was  clear,  but  no  longer  of  an  intense  blue; 
the  little  racks  of  cloud  were  lying  supine  on  its 
calm  depths,  apparently  having  nowhere  to  go  and 

nothing  to  do.     The  driving,  sweeping,  changing 

(434) 


A  VISITER.  435 

forms  of  vapour,  which  in  spring  had  come  with 
rain  and  in  summer  had  come  with  thunder,  had 
all  disappeared;  and  these  little  delicate  lines  of 
cloud  lay  purposeless  and  at  rest  on  the  blue.  Na 
ture  had  done  her  work  for  the  year;  she  had 
grown  the  grass  and  ripened  the  grain,  and  manu 
factured  the  wonderful  juices  in  the  tissues  of  the 
fruit,  and  laid  a  new  growth  of  woody  fibre  round 
the  heart  of  the  trees.  She  was  resting  now,  as  it 
were,  content  with  her  work.  And  so  seemed  Lois 
to  be  doing,  at  the  moment  Mrs.  Barclay  entered 
the  garden.  It  was  unusual  to  find  her  so.  I  sup 
pose  the  witching  beauty  of  the  day  beguiled  her. 
But  it  was  of  another  beauty  Mrs.  Barclay  thought, 
as  she  drew  near  the  girl. 

A  short  ladder  stood  under  one  of  the  apple  trees, 
upon  which  Lois  had  been  mounting  to  pluck  her 
fruit.  On  the  ground  below  stood  two  large  bas 
kets,  full  now  of  the  ruddy  apples,  shining  and 
beautiful.  Beside  them,  on  the  dry  turf,  sat  Lois 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap;  and  Mrs.  Barclay  won 
dered  at  her  as  she  drew  near. 

Yet  it  is  not  too  easy  to  tell  why,  at  least  so  as 
to  make  the  reader  get  at  the  sense  of  the  words. 
I  have  the  girl's  image  before  my  eyes,  mentally, 
but  words  have  neither  form  nor  colour ;  how  shall 
I  paint  with  them  ?  It  was  not  the  beauty  of  mere 
form  and  colour,  either,  that  struck  Mrs.  Barclay 
in  Lois's  face.  You  may  easily  see  more  regular 
features  and  more  dazzling  complexion.  It  was 
not  any  particular  brilliance  of  eye,  or  piquancy 


436  NOBODY. 

of  expression.  There  was  a  soundness  and  fulness 
of  young  life;  that  is  not  so  uncommon  either. 
There  was  a  steadfast  strength  and  sweetness  of 
nature.  There  was  an  unconscious,  innocent  grace, 
that  is  exceedingly  rare.  And  a  high,  noble  ex 
pression  of  countenance  and  air  and  movement, 
such  as  can  belong  only  to  one  whose  thoughts  and 
aims  never  descend  to  pettinesses;  who  assimilates 
nobility  by  being  always  concerned  with  what  is 
noble.  And  then,  the  face  was  very  fair ;  the  ruddy 
brown  ha*ir  very  rich  and  abundant;  the  figure 
graceful  and  good;  all  the  spiritual  beauty  I  have 
been  endeavouring  to  describe  had  a  favouring 
groundwork  of  nature  to  display  itself  upon.  Mrs. 
Barclay's  steps  grew  slower  and  slower  as  she  came 
near,  that  she  might  prolong  the  view,  which  to 
her  was  so  lovely.  Then  Lois  looked  at  her  and 
slightly  smiled. 

"Lois,  my  dear,  what  are  you  doing?" 

"Not  exactly  nothing,  Mrs.  Barclay;  though  it 
looks  like  it.  Such  a  day  one  cannot  bear  to  go  in 
doors!" 

"  You  are  gathering  your  apples  ?  " 

"I  have  got  done  for  to-day." 

"  What  are  you  studying,  here  beside  your  bas 
kets  ?  What  beautiful  apples !  " 

"  Aren't  they  ?  These  are  our  Royal  Reddings ; 
they  are  good  for  eating  and  cooking,  and  they 
keep  perfectly.  If  only  they  are  picked  off  by 
hand." 

"  What  were  you  studying,  Lois  ?     May  I  not 


A  VISITER.  437 

know?"  Mrs.  Barclay  took  an  apple  and  a  seat 
on  the  turf  beside  the  girl. 

"  Hardly  studying.  Only  musing, — as  such  a  day 
makes  one  muse.  I  was  thinking,  Mrs.  Barclay, 
what  use  I  could  make  of  my  life." 

"  What  use  ?  Can  you  make  better  use  of  it  than 
you  are  doing,  in  taking  care  of  Mrs.  Armadale  ?  " 

"  Yes — as  things  are  now.  But  in  the  common 
course  of  things  I  should  outlive  grandmamma." 

"  Then  you  will  marry  somebody,  and  take  care 
of  him." 

"Very  unlikely,  I  think." 

"May  I  ask,  why?" 

"  I  do  riot  know  anybody  that  is  the  sort  of  man 
I  could  marry." 

"  What  do  you  require  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  A  great  deal,  I  suppose,"  said  Lois  slowly.  "  I 
have  never  studied  that;  I  was  not  studying  it  just 
now.  But  I  was  thinking,  what  might  be  the  best 
way  of  making  myself  of  some  use  in  the  world. 
Foolish,  too." 

"Why  so?" 

"  It  is  no  use  for  us  to  lay  plans  for  our  lives ; 
not  much  use  for  us  to  lay  plans  for  anything. 
They  are  pretty  sure  to  be  broken  up." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  sighing.  "  I  wonder, 
why ! " 

"  I  suppose,  because  they  do  not  fall  in  with 
God's  plans  for  us." 

"  His  plans  for  us,"  repeated  Mrs.  Barclay  slowly. 
"  Do  you  believe  in  such  things  ?  That  would  mean, 


438  NOBODY. 

individual  plans,  Lois;  for  you  individually,  and  for 
me." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Barclay — that  is  what  I  believe." 

"  It  is  incomprehensible  to  me." 

"Why  should  it  be?" 

"  To  think  that  the  Highest  should  concern  him 
self  with  such  small  details." 

"It  is  just  because  he  is  the  Highest,  and  so 
High,  that  he  can.  Besides — do  we  know  what 
are  small  details  ?  " 

"  But  why  should  he  care  what  becomes  of  us  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Barclay  gloomily. 

"  0  do  you  ask  that  ?  When  he  is  Love  itself, 
and  would  have  the  very  best  things  for  each  one 
of  us?" 

"  We  don't  have  them,  I  am  sure." 

"  Because  we  will  not,  then.  To  have  them,  we 
must  fall  in  with  his  plans." 

"  My  dear  Lois,  do  you  know  that  you  are  talk 
ing  the  profoundest  mysteries  ?  " 

"  No.  They  are  not  mysteries  to  me.  The  Bible 
says  all  I  have  been  saying." 

''That  is  sufficient  for  you,  and  you  do  not  stop 
to  look  into  the  mystery.  Lois  it  is  all  mystery. 
Look  at  all  the  wretched  ruined  lives  one  sees; 
what  becomes  of  those  plans  for  good  for  them  ?  " 

"Failed,  Mrs.  Barclay;  because  of  the  people's 
unwillingness  to  come  into  the  plans." 

"They  do  not  know  them  !  " 

"No,  but  they  do  know  the  steps  which  lead 
into  them,  and  those  steps  they  refuse  to  take." 


A  VISITER.  439 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.     What  steps  ?  " 

"The  Lord  does  not  shew  us  his  plans.  He 
shews  us,  one  by  one,  the  steps  he  bids  us  take. 
If  we  take  them,  one  by  one,  they  will  bring  us 
into  all  that  God  has  purposed  and  meant  for  us — 
the  very  best  that  could  come  to  us." 

"  And  you  think  His  plans  and  purposes  could 
be  overthrown  ?  " 

"  Why  certainly.  Else  what  mean  Christ's  lam 
entations  over  Jerusalem?  '0  Jerusalem,  .  ,  .  . 
how  often  would  I  have  gathered  thy  children  to 
gether,  even  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  brood  under 
her  wings,  and  ye  would  not.'  I  would — ye  would 
not ;  and  the  choice  lies  with  us." 

"And  suppose  a  person  falls  in  with  these  plans, 
as  you  say,  step  by  step  ?  " 

"0  then  it  is  all  good,"  said  Lois;  "the  way  and 
the  end;  all  good.  There  is  no  mistake  nor  mis 
adventure." 

"Nor  disaster?" 

"Not  what  turns  out  to  be  such." 

"Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "you  are  a  very  happy  person!" 

"Yes,"  said  Lois  smiling;  "and  I  have  just  told 
you  the  reason.  Don't  you  see  ?  I  have  no  care 
about,  anything." 

"On  your  principles,  I  do  not  see  what  need 
you  had  to  consider  your  future  way  of  life;  to 
speculate  about  it,  I  mean." 

"No,"  said  Lois  rising,  "I  have  not.  Only 
sometimes  one  must  look  a  little  carefully  at  the 


440  NOBODY. 

parting  of  the  ways,  to  see  which  road  one  is 
meant  to  take." 

"  Sit  down  again.  I  did  not  come  out  here  to 
talk  of  all  this.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  something." 

Lois  sat  down. 

"  I  came  to  ask  a  favour." 

"How  could  you,  Mrs.  Barclay?  I  mean,  noth 
ing  we  could  do  could  be  a  favour  to  you ! " 

"Yes,  it  could.  I  have  a  friend  that  wants  to 
come  to  see  me." 

"Well?" 

"May  he  come?" 

"Why  of  course." 

"But  it  is  a  gentleman." 

"Weil,"  said  Lois  again,  smiling,  "we  have  no 
objections  to  gentlemen." 

"  It  is  a  friend  whom  I  have  not  seen  in  a  very 
long  while ;  a  dear  friend ;  a  dear  friend  of  my  hus 
band's  in  years  gone  by.  He  has  just  returned 
from  Europe;  and  he  writes  to  ask  if  he  may  call 
on  his  way  to  Boston  and  spend  Sunday  with  me." 

"He  shall  be  very  welcome,  Mrs.  Barclay ;  and 
we  will  try  to  make  him  comfortable." 

"  O,  comfortable !  there  is  no  question  of  that. 
But  will  it  not  be  at  all  inconvenient?'' 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Then  he  may  come?" 

"Certainly.     When  does  he  wish  to  come?" 

"This  week — Saturday.     His  name  is  Dillwyn." 

"Dillwyn!"  Lois  repeated.  "Dillwyn?  I  saw 
a  Mr.  Dillwyn  at  Mrs.  Wishart's  once  or  twice." 


A    VlSITER.  441 

u  It  must  be  the  same.  I  do  not  know  of  two. 
And  he  knows  Mrs.  Wishart.  So  you  remember 
him.  What  do  you  remember  about  him  ?  " 

"Not  much.  I  have  an  impression  that  he 
knows  a  great  deal,  and  has  very  pleasant  man 
ners." 

"Quite  right.  That  is  the  man.  So  he  may 
come.  Thank  you." 

Lois  took  up  one  of  her  baskets  of  apples  and 
carried  it  into  the  house,  where  she  deposited  it  at 
Mrs.  Arrnadale's  feet. 

"  They  are  beautiful  this  year,  aren't  they,  moth 
er  ?  Girls,  we  are  going  to  have  a  visiter." 

Charity  was  brushing  up  the  floor;  the  broom 
paused.  Madge  was  sewing;  the  needle  remained 
drawn  out.  Both  looked  at  Lois. 

"A  visiter!  "  came  from  both  pairs  of  lips. 

"Yes,  indeed.  A  visiter.  A  gentleman.  And 
he  is  coming  to  stay  over  Sunday.  So  Gharry,  you 
must  see  and  have  things  very  special.  And  so 
must  I." 

"  A  gentleman !     Who  is  he  ?     Uncle  Tim  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  A  young,  at  least  a  much 
younger,  gentleman;  a  travelled  gentleman;  an 
elegant  gentleman.  A  friend  of  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Nothing  whatever.  We  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  him,  and  couldn't  do  it  if  we  had." 

"  You  needn't  laugh.  We  have  got-  to  lodge 
him  and  feed  him." 

"  That's  easy.     I'll  put  the  white  spread  on  the 


442  NOBODY. 

bed  in  the  spare  room ;  and  you  may  get  out  your 
pickles." 

"  Pickles !     Is  lie  fond  of  pickles  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know !  "  said  Lois  laughing  still.  "  I 
have  an  impression  he  is  a  man  who  likes  all  sorts 
of  nice  things." 

"  I  hate  men  who  like  nice  things !  But  Lois ! — 
there  will  be  Saturday  tea,  and  Sunday  breakfast  and 
dinner  and  supper,  and  Monday  morning  breakfast." 

"  Perhaps  Monday  dinner." 

"  0  he  can't  stay  to  dinner." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  is  washing  day." 

"My  dear  Gharry!  to  such  men  Monday  is  just 
like  all  other  days ;  and  washing  is — well,  of  course 
a  necessity,  but  it  is  done  by  fairies,  or  it  might  be, 
for  all  they  know  about  it." 

"There's  five  meals  anyhow,"  Charity  went  on. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan  to  get  uncle  Tim 
to  be  here  ?  " 

"What  for?" 

"  Why  we  haven't  a  man  in  the  house." 

"What  then?" 

"  Who'll  talk  to  him  ?" 

"Mrs.  Barclay  will  take  care  of  that.  You, 
Charity  dear,  see  to  your  pickles." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Charity 
fretfully.  "What  are  we  going  to  have  for  dinner 
Sunday?  -I  could  fricassee  a  pair  of  chickens." 

"  No,  Charity,  you  couldn't.  Sunday  is  Sunday, 
just  as  much  with  Mr.  Dillwyn  here." 


A  VISITER.  443 

"  Dillwyn !  "  said  Madge.  "  I've  heard  you  speak 
of  him."  . 

"  Very  likely.  I  saw  him  once  or  twice  in  my 
New  York  days." 

"And  he  gave  you  lunch." 

"Mrs.  Wishart  and  me.  Yes.  And  a  good 
lunch  it  was.  That's  why  I  spoke  of  pickles, 
Charity.  Do  the  very  best  you  can." 

"I  cannot  do  my  best,  unless  I  can  cook  the 
chickens,"  said  Charity,  who  all  this  while  stood  lean 
ing  upon  her  broom.  "I  might  do  it  for  once?" 

"  Where  is  your  leave  to  do  wrong  once?" 

"  But  this  is  a  particular  occasion — you  may  call 
it  a  necessity;  and  necessity  makes  an  exception." 

"  What  is  the  necessity,  Charity  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Armadale,  who  until  now  had  not  spoken. 

"Why  grandma,  you  want  to  treat  a  stranger 
well?" 

"  With  whatever  I  have  got  to  give  him.  But 
Sunday  time  isn't  mine  to  give." 

"But  necessary  things,  grandma? — we  may  do 
necessary  things  ?  " 

"  What  have  you  got  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Nothing  on  earth,  except  a  ham  to  boil.  Cold 
ham, — that's  all.  Do  you  think  that's  enough  ?  " 

"It  won't  hurt  him  to  dine  on  cold  ham,"  the 
old  lady  said  complacently. 

"Why  don't  you  cook  your  chickens  and  have 
them  cold  too  ?  "  Lois  asked. 

"Cold  fricassee  aint  worth  a  cent." 

"  Cook  them  some  other  way.     Koast  them, — 


444  NOBODY. 

or —  Give  them  to  me,  and  I'll  do  them  for  you ! 
I'll  do  them,  Charity.  Then  with  your  nice  bread, 
and  apple  sauce,  and  potatoes,  and  some  of  my 
pears  and  apples,  and  a  pumpkin  pie,  Charity, 
and  coffee, — we  shall  do  very  well.  Mr.  Dillwyii 
has  made  a  worse  dinner  in  the  course  of  his  wan 
derings,  I'll  undertake  to  maintain." 

"What  shall  I  have  for  supper?"  Charity  asked 
doubtfully.  "Supper  comes  first." 

"  Shortcake.  And  some  of  your  cold  ham.  And 
stew  up  some  quinces  and  apples  together,  Cherry. 
You  don't  want  anything  more, — or  better." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  understand  having  a  cold 
dinner  Sunday  ?  "  Charity  asked.  "  Men  make  so 
much  of  hot  dinners." 

"  What  does  it  signify,  my  dear,  whether  he  un 
derstands  it  or  not?"  said  Mrs.  Armadale.  "What 
we  have  to  do,  is  what  the  Lord  tells  us  to  do. 
That  is  all  you  need  mind." 

"  I  mind  what  folks  think,  though,"  said  Charity. 
"  Mrs.  Barclay's  friend  especially." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  notice  it,"  said  simple 
Mrs.  Armadale. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII, 

THE    VALUE   OF   MONEY. 

'TWERE  was  a  little  more  bustle  in  the  house 
1  than  usual  during  the  next  two  following 
days;  and  the  spare  room  was  no  doubt  put  in 
very  particular  order,  with  the  best  of  all  the 
house  could  furnish  on  the  bed  and  toilet  table. 
Pantry  and  larder  also  were  well  stocked;  and 
Lois  was  just  watching  the  preparation  of  her 
chickens  Saturday  evening,  and  therefore  in  the 
kitchen,  when  Mr.  Dillwyn  came  to  the  door. 
Mrs.  Barclay  herself  let  him  in,  and  brought  him 
into  her  own  warm,  comfortable,  luxurious-looking 
sitting  room.  The  evening  was  falling  dusk,  so 
that  the  little  wood  lire  in  Mrs.  Barclay's  chim 
ney  had  opportunity  to  display  itself,  and  I 
might  say,  the  room  too ;  which  never  could  have 
shewed  to  better  advantage.  The  flickering  light 
danced  back  again  from  gilded  books,  from  the 
polished  case  of  the  piano,  from  picture  frames, 
and  pictures,  and  piles  of  music,  and  comfortable 
easy  chairs  standing  invitingly,  and  trinkets  of 
art  or  curiosity;  an  unrolled  engraving  in  one 


446  NOBODY. 

place,  a  stereoscope  in  another,  a  work  basket, 
and  the  bright  brass  stand  of  a  microscope. 

The  greeting  was  warm  between  the  two  friends ; 
and  then  Mrs.  Barclay  sat  down  and  surveyed  her 
visiter,  whom  she  had  not  seen  in  so  long.  He 
was  not  a  beauty  of  Tom  Caruthers'  sort,  but  he 
was  what  I  think  better;  manly  and  intelligent, 
and  with  an  air  and  bearing  of  frank  nobleness 
which  became  him  exceedingly.  That  he  was  a 
man  with  a  serious  purpose  in  life,  or  any  ob 
ject  of  earnest  pursuit,  you  would  not  have  sup 
posed;  and  that  character  had  never  belonged  to 
him.  Mrs.  Barclay,  looking  at  him,  could  not  see 
any  sign  that  it  was  his  now.  Look  and  manner 
were  easy  and  careless  as  of  old. 

'*  You  are  not  changed,"  she  remarked. 

"  What  should  change  me  ?  "  said  he,  while  his 
eye  ran  rapidly  over  the  apartment.  "And  you ? 
— you  do  not  look  as  if  life  was  stagnating  here." 

"  It  does  not  stagnate.  I  never  was  further 
from  stagnation  in  all  my  life." 

"  And  yet  Shampuashuh  is  in  a  corner ! " 

"  Is  not  most  of  the  work  of  the  world  done  in 
corners  ?  It  is  not  the  butterfly,  but  the  coral  in 
sect,  that  lays  foundations  and  lifts  up  islands  out 
of  the  sea." 

"You  are  not  a  coral  insect  any  more  than  I 
am  a  butterfly,"  said  Dillwyn  laughing. 

"Rather  more." 

"I  acknowledge  it,  thankfully.  And  I  am  re 
joiced  to  know  from  your  letters  that  the  seclu- 


THE  VALUE  OF   MONEY.  447 

sion  has  been  without  any  evil  consequences  to 
yourself.  It  has  been  pleasant  ?  " 

"Koyally  pleasant.  I  have  delighted  in  my 
building;  even  although  I  could  not  tell  whether 
my  island  would  not  prove  a  dangerous  one  to 
mariners." 

"I  have  just  been  having  a  discourse  on  'that 
subject  with  my  sister.  I  think's  one's  sisters  are 
— I  beg  your  pardon ! — the  mischief.  Tom's  sister 
has  done  for  him ;  and  mine  is  very  eager  to  take 
care  of  me." 

"Did  you  consult  her?"  asked  Mrs.  Barclay 
with  surprise. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!  I  merely  told  her  I 
was  coming  up  here  to  see  you.  A  few  questions 
followed,  as  to  what  you  were  doing  here, — which 
I  did  not  tell  her,  by  the  way, — and  she  hit  the 
bull's  eye  with  the  instinctive  accuracy  of  a  wo 
man;  poured  out  upon  me  in  consequence  a  lec 
ture  upon  imprudence.  Of  course  I  confessed  to 
nothing,  but  that  mattered  not.  All  that  Tom's 
sister  urged  upon  him,  my  good  sister  pressed 
upon  me." 

"  So  did  I  once,  did  I  not?  " 

"  You  are  not  going  to  repeat  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  is  over,  for  me.  I  know  better.  But 
Philip,  I  do  not  see  the  way  very  clear  before  you." 

He  left  the  matter  there,  and  went  off  into  a  talk 
with  her  upon  widely  different  subjects;  touching 
or  growing  out  of  his  travels  and  experiences  dur 
ing  the  last  year  and  a  half.  The  twilight  dark- 


448  NOBODY. 

ened,  and  the  fire  brightened,  and  in  the  light  of  the 
fire  the  two  sat  and  talked;  till  a  door  opened,  and 
in  the  same  flickering  shine  a  figure  presented  it 
self  which  Mr.  Dillwyn  remembered.  Though  now 
it  was  clothed  in  nothing  finer  than  a  dark  calico, 
and  round  her  shoulders  a  little  white  worsted  shawl 
was'  twisted.  Mrs.  Barclay  began  a  sentence  of 
introduction,  but  Mr.  Dillwyn  cut  her  short. 

"  Do  not  do  me  such  dishonour,"  he  said.  "  Must 
I  suppose  that  Miss  Lothrop  has  forgotten  me?" 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Dillwyn,"  said  Lois  frankly;  "I 
remember  you  very  well.  Tea  will  be  ready  in  a 
minute — would  you  like  to  see  your  room  first?  " 

"  You  are  too  kind,  to  receive  me !  " 

"  It  is  a  pleasure.  You  are  Mrs.  Barclay's  friend, 
and  she  is  at  home  here;  I  will  get  a  light." 

Which  she  did,  and  Mr.  Dillwyn,  seeing  he  could 
not  find  his  own  way,  was  obliged  to  accept  her  ser 
vices  and  see  her  trip  up  the  stairs  before  him.  At  the 
door  she  handed  him  the  light  and  ran  down  again. 
There  was  a  fire  here  too ;  a  wood  fire ;  blazing  hos 
pitably,  and  throwing  its  cheery  shine  upon  a  wide, 
pleasant,  country  room,  not  like  what  Mr.  Dillwyn 
was  accustomed  to,  but  it  seemed  the  more  hospit 
able.  Nothing  handsome  there;  no  articles  of  lux 
ury  (beside  the  fire);  the  reflection  of  the  blaze 
came  back  from  dark  old-fashioned  chairs  and  chests 
of  drawers,  dark  chintz  hangings  to  windows  and 
bed,  white-counterpane  and  napery,  with  a  sonsy, 
sober,  quiet  air  of  comfort;  and  the  air  was  fresh 
and  sweet  as  air  should  be,  and  as  air  can  only  be 


THE  VALUE  or  MONEY.  449 

at  a  distance  from  the  smoke  of  many  chimneys 
and  the  congregated  habitations  of  many  human 
beings.  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Dillwyn  spent  much 
attention  upon  these  details ;  yet  he  felt  himself  in 
a  sound,  clear,  healthy  atmosphere,  socially  as  well 
as  physically ;  also  had  a  perception  that  it  was  very 
far  removed  from  that  in  which  he  had  lived  and 
breathed  hitherto.  How  simply  that  girl  had  lighted 
him  up  the  stairs,  and  given  him  his  brass  candle 
stick  at  the  door  of  his  room !  What  a  plomb  could 
have  been  more  perfect!  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
that  Mr.  Dillwyn  knew  the  candlestick  was  brass ;, 
I  am  afraid  there  was  a  glamour  over  his  eyes  which 
made  it  seem  golden. 

He  found  Mrs.  Barclay  seated  in  a  very  thought 
ful  attitude  before  her  fire,  when  he  came  down 
again;  but  just  then  the  door  of  the  other  room 
was  opened  and  they  were  called  in  to  tea. 

The  family  were  in  rather  gala  trim.  Lois,  as  I 
said,  wore  indeed  only  a  dark  print  dress,  with  her 
white  fichu  over  it;  but  Charity  had  put  on  her 
best  silk,  and  Madge  had  stuck  two  golden  chry 
santhemums  in  her  dark  hair,  (with  excellent 
effect)  and  Mrs.  Armadale  was  stately  in  her  best 
cap.  Alas,  Philip  Dillwyn  did  not  know  what 
any  of  them  had  on.  He  was  placed  next  to  Mrs. 
Armadale,  and  all  supper  time  his  special  atten 
tion,  so  far  as  appeared,  was  given  to  the  old  lady. 
He  talked  to  her,  and  he  served  her,  with  an  easy 
pleasant  grace,  and  without  at  all  putting  himself 
forward  or  taking  the  part  of  the  distinguished 


450  NOBODY. 

stranger.  It  was  simply  good  will  and  go.od 
breeding;  however  it  produced  a  great  effect. 

"  The  air  up  here  is  delicious ! "  he  remarked 
after  he  had  attended  to  all  the  old  lady's  immedi 
ate  wants  and  applied  himself  to  his  own  supper. 
"  It  gives  one  a  tremendous  appetite." 

"  I  allays  like  to  see  folks  eat,"  said  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale.  "  After  one's  done  the  gettin'  things  ready, 
I  hate  to  have  it  all  for  nothin'." 

"  It  shall  not  be  for  nothing  this  time,  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned." 

"  Aint  the  air  good  in  New  York?"  Mrs.  Ar ma- 
dale  next  asked. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  ever  was  so  sweet  as  this. 
But  when  you  crowd  a  million  or  so  of  people  into 
room  that  is  only  enough  for  a  thousand,  you  can 
guess  what  the  consequences  must  be." 

"  What  do  they  crowd  up  so  for,  then  ?  " 

"It  must  be  the  case  in  a  great  city." 

"  I  don't  see  the  sense  o'  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ar- 
madale.  "  Aint  the  world  big  enough  ?  '* 

"  Far  too  big,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn.  "  You  see,  when 
people's  time  is  very  valuable,  they  cannot  afford 
to  spend  too  much  of  it  in  running  about  after  each 
other." 

"  What  makes  their  time  worth  any  more'n 
our'n?" 

"They  are  making  money  so  fast  with  it." 

"And  is  that  what  makes  folks'  time  valey 
able?" 

"  In  their  opinion,  madam." 


THE  VALUE  OF  MONEY.  451 

"  I  never  could  see  no  use  in  havin'  much  mon 
ey,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  But  there  comes  a  question,"  said  Dillwyn. 
"What  is  'much'?" 

"  More'n  enough,  I  should  say." 

"  Enough  for  what  ?     That  also  must  be  settled." 

"  I'm  an  old-fashioned  woman,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"and  I  go  by  the  old-fashion edst  book  in  the 
world.  That  says,  '  we  brought  nothing  into  this 
world,  and  we  can  carry  nothing  out ;  therefore,  hav 
ing  food  and  raiment,  let  us  be  therewith  content.' " 

"  But  again, — what  sort  of  food,  and  what  sort 
of  raiment  ? "  urged  the  gentleman  pleasantly. 
"For  instance;  would  you  be  content  to  exchange 
this  delicious  manufacture, — which  seems  to  me 
rather  like  ambrosia  than  common  food, — for  some 
of  the  black  bread  of  Norway?  with  no  qualifica 
tion  of  golden  butter  ?  or  for  Scotch  oatmeal  ban 
nocks  ?  or  for  sour  corn  cake  ?  " 

"  I  would  be  quite  content,  if  it  was  the  Lord's 
will,"  said  the  old  lady.  "There's  no  obligation 
upon  anybody  to  have  it  sour." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  laughed  gently.  "  I  can  fancy,"  he 
said,  "  that  you  never  would  allow  such  a  derelic 
tion  in  duty.  But  beside  having  the  bread  sweet, 
is  it  not  allowed  us  to  have  the  best  we  can  get  ?  " 

"The  best  we  can  make''  answered  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale;  "I  believe  in  everybody  doin'  the  best  he 
kin  with  what  he  has  got  to  work  with ;  but  food 
aint  worth  so  much  that  we'  should  pay  a  large 
price  for  it." 


452  NOBODY. 

The  gentleman's  eye  glanced  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  movement  over  the  table  at  which  he 
was  sitting.  Bread  indeed,  in  piles  of  white  flaki- 
ness;  and  butter;  but  besides,  there  was  the  cold 
ham  in  delicate  slices,  and  excellent-looking  cheese, 
and  apples  in  a  sort  of  beautiful  golden  confection, 
and  cake  of  superb  colour  and  texture;  a  pitcher 
of  milk  that  was  rosy  sweet,  and  coffee  rich  with 
cream.  The  glance  that  took  all  this  in  was  slight 
and  swift,  and  yet  the  old  lady  was  quick  enough 
to  see  and  understand  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  all  our'n,  all  there  is  on  the 
table.  Our  cow  eats  our  own  grass,  and  Madge, 
my  daughter,  makes  the  butter  and  the  cheese. 
We've  raised  and  cured  our  own  pork;  and  the 
wheat  that  makes  the  bread  is  grown  on  our 
ground  too;  we  farm  it  out  on  shares;  and  it  is 
ground  at  a  mill  about  four  miles  off.  Our  hens 
lay  our  eggs;  it's  all  from  home." 

"But  suppose  the  case  of  people  who  have  no 
ground,  nor  hens,  nor  pork,  nor  cow?  they  must 
buy." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  old  lady;  "everybody  aint 
farmers." 

"  I  am  ready  to  wish  I  was  one,"  said  Dillwyn. 
"But  even  then,  I  confess,  I  should  want  coffee 
and  tea  and  sugar — as  I  see  you.  do." 

"  Wei],  those  things  don't  grow  in  America,' 
said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"And  spice  don't,  neither,  mother,"  observed 
Charity. 


THE  VALUE  OF  MONEY.  453 

"So  it  appears  that  even  you  send  abroad  for 
luxuries,"  Mr/  Dillwyn  went  on.  "And  why  not? 
And  the  question  is,  where  shall  we  stop?  If  I 
want  coifee,  I  must  have  money  to  buy  it,  and  the 
better  the.  coffee  the  more  money;  and  the  same 
with  tea.  In  cities  we  must  buy  all  we  use  or  con 
sume,  unless  one  is  a  butcher  or  a  baker.  May  I 
not  try  to  get  more  money,  in  order  that  I  may 
have  better  things?  We  have  got  round  to  our 
starting  point." 

"  'They  that  will  be  rich  fall  into  temptation  and 
a  snare,' "  Mrs.  Armadale  said  quietly. 

"Then  where  is  the  line? — Miss  Lois,  you  are 
smiling.  Is  it  at  my  stupidity  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Lois.  "  I  was  thinking  of  a  lunch — 
such  as  I  have  seen  it — in  one  of  the  great  New 
York  hotels." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he,  without  betraying  on  his  own 
part  any  recollection ;  "  how  does  that  come 
in?  By  way  of  illustrating  Mrs.  Armadale,  or 
me?"  " 

"  I  seem  to  remember  a  number  of  things  that 
illustrate  both,"  said  Lois;  "but  as  I  profited  by 
them  at  the  time,  it  would  be  ungrateful  in  me  to 
instance  them  now." 

"You  profited  by  them  with  pleasure,  or  Other 
wise  ?  " 

"Not  otherwise.     I  was  very  hungry." 

"  You  evade  my  question,  however." 

"I  will  not.  I  profited  by  them  with  much 
pleasure." 


454  NOBODY. 

"  Then  you  are  on  my  side,  as  far  as  I  can  be 
said  to  have  a  side  ?  " 

"I  think  not.  The  pleasure  is  undoubted;  but 
I  do  not  know  that  that  touches  the  question  of 
expediency." 

"  I  think  it  does.  I  think  it  settles  the  question. 
Mrs.  Armadale,  your  granddaughter  confesses  the 
pleasure;  and  what  else  do  we  live  for,  but  to  get 
the  most  good  out  of  life  ?  " 

"What  pleasure  does  she  confess?"  asked  tho 
old  lady,  with  more  eagerness  than  her  words 
hitherto  had  manifested. 

"Pleasure  in  nice  things,  grandmother;  in  par 
ticularly  nice  things;  that  had  cost  a  great  deal 
to  fetch  them  from  nobody  knows  where;  and 
pleasure  in  pretty  things  too.  That  hotel  seemed 
almost  like  the  halls  of  Aladdin  to  my  inexperi 
enced  eyes.  There  is  certainly  pleasure  in  a  won 
derfully  dainty  meal,  served  in  wonderful  vessels 
of  glass  and  china  and  silver,  and  marble  and  gold 
and  flowers  to  help  the  effect.  I  could  have  dreamed 
myself  into  a  fairy  tale,  often,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  people." 

"  Life  is  not  a  fairy  tale,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale 
somewhat  severely. 

"Ifo,  grandmother;  and  so  the  humanity  present 
generally  reminded  me.  But  the  illusion  for  a  min 
ute  was  delightful." 

"  Is  there  any  harm  in  making  it  as  much  like 
a  fairy  tale  as  we  can  ?  " 

Some  of  the  little  courtesies  and  hospitalities  of 


THE  VALUE  OF  MONEY.  455 

the  table  came  in  here,  and  Mr.  Dillwyn's  question 
received  no  answer.  His  eye  went  round  the  table. 
No,  clearly  these  people  did  not  live  in  fairyland, 
and  as  little  in  the  search  after  it.  Good,  strong, 
sensible,  practical  faces;  women  that  evidently  had 
their  work  to  do  and  did  it;  habitual  energy  and  pur 
pose  spoke  in  every  one  of  them,  and  purpose  attained. 
Here  was  no  aimless  dreaming  or  fruitless  wish 
ing.  The  old  lady's  face  was  sorely  weatherbeaten, 
but  calm  as  a  ship  in  harbour.  Charity  was  homely, 
but  comfortable.  Madge  and  Lois  were  blooming 
in  strength  and  activity,  and  as  innocent  apparently 
of  any  vague,  unfulfilled  longings  as  a  new  blown 
rose.  Only  when  Mr.  Dillwyn's  eye  met  Mrs.  Bar 
clay's  he  was  sensible  of  a  different  record.  He  half 
sighed.  The  calm  and  the  rest  were  not  there. 

The  talk  rambled  on.  Mr.  Dillwyn  made  him 
self  exceedingly  pleasant;  told  of  things  he  had 
seen  in  his  travels,  things  and  people,  and  ways 
of  life;  interesting  even  Mrs.  Armadale  with  a 
sort  of  fascinated  interest,  and  gaining,  he  knew, 
no  little  share  of  her  good  will.  So,  just  as  the 
meal  was  ending  he  ventured  to  bring  forward 
the  old  subject  again. 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Armadale,"  he  began, 
— "but  you  are  the  first  person  I  ever  met  who  did 
not  value  money." 

"Perhaps  I  am  the  first  person  you  ever  met 
who  had  something  better." 

"You  mean — ?"  said  Philip  with  a  look  of  in 
quiry.  "I  do  not  understand." 


456  NOBODY. 

"  I  have  treasure  in  heaven." 

"  But  the  coin  of  that  realm  is  not  current  here  ? 
— and  we  are  here" 

"That  coin  makes  me  rich  now;  and  I  take  it 
with  me  when  I  go,"  said  the  old  lady  as  she 
rose  from  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

UNDER    AN    UMBRELLA. 

MRS.  BARCLAY  returned  to  her  own  room,  and 
Mr.  Dillwyn  was  forced  to  follow  her.  The 
door  was  shut  between  them  and  the  rest  of  the 
household.  Mrs.  Barclay  trimmed  her  fire,  and  her 
guest  looked  on  absently.  Then  they  sat  down  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  fireplace;  Mrs.  Barclay  smil 
ing  inwardly,  for  she  knew  that  Philip  was  im 
patient;  however  nothing  could  be  more  sedate 
to  all  appearance  than  she  was. 

"  Do  you  hear  how  the  wind  moans  in  the  chim 
ney  ?  "  she  said.     "  That  means  rain." 

"  Rather  dismal,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  No.     In  this  house  nothing  is  dismal.     There 
is  a  wholesome  way  of  looking  at  everything." 

"  Not  at  money  ?  " 

"It  is  no  use,  Philip,  to  talk  to  people  about 
what  they  cannot  understand." 

"  I  thought,  understanding  on  that  point  was 
universal." 

(457) 


458  NOBODY. 

"  They  have  another  standard  in  this  family  for 
weighing  things,  from  that  which  you  and  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  go  by." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you,  in  a  word.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  can  tell  you  at  all.  Ask  Lois." 

"When  can  I  ask  her?  Do  you  spend  your 
evenings  alone  ?  " 

"  By  no  means !  Sometimes  I  go  out  and  read 
Kob  Roy  to  them.  Sometimes  the  girls  come  to 
me  for  some  deeper  reading,  or  lessons." 

"  Will  they  come  to-night  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  They  would  not  interfere  with 
your  enjoyment  of  my  society." 

"  Cannot  you  ask  Lois  in,  on  some  pretext  ?  " 

"Not  without  her  sister.  It  is  hard  on  you, 
Philip!  I  will  do  the  best  for  you  I  can;  but 
you  must  watch  your  opportunity." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  gave  it  up  with  a  good  grace,  and 
devoted  himself  to  Mrs.  Barclay  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  separating 
the  two  rooms  meanwhile  a  different  colloquy  had 
taken  place. 

"  So  that  is  one  of  your  fine  people,"  said  Miss 
Charity.  "  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  him." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  return  the  compli 
ment,"  said  Madge. 

"No,"  said  Lois;  "I  think  he  is  too  polite." 

"  He  was  polite  to  grandmother,"  returned  Char 
ity.  "  Not  to  anybody  else,  that  1  saw.  But  girls, 
didn't  he  like  the  bread !  " 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  459 

"I  thought  he  liked  everything  pretty  well," 
said  Madge. 

"  When's  he  goin'  ?  "  Mrs.  Armadale  asked  sud 
denly. 

"Monday,  some  time,"  Madge  answered.  "Mrs. 
Barclay  said  '  until  Monday.'  What  time  Monday 
I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  we've  got  things  enough  to  hold  out  till 
then,"  said  Charity,  gathering  up  her  dishes.  "  It's 
fun,  too;  I  like  to  set  a  nice  table." 

"Why,  grandmother?"  said  Lois.  "Don't  you 
like  Mrs.  Barclay's  friend  ?  " 

"Well  enough,  child.  I  don't  want  him  for 
none  of  our'n." 

"  Why,  grandmother  ?  "  said  Madge. 

"  His  world  aint  our  world,  children,  and  his 
hopes  aint  our  hopes — if  the  poor  soul  has  any. 
'Seems  to  me  he's  all  in  the  dark." 

"That's  only  on  one  subject,"  said  Lois.  "About 
everything  else  he  knows  a  great  deal ;  and  he  has 
seen  everything." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale;  "very  like  he  has; 
and  he  likes  to  talk  about  it;  and  he  has  a  pleas 
ant  tongue;  and  he  is  a  civil  man.  But  there's 
one  thing  he  haint  seen,  and  that  is  the  light;  and 
one  thing  he  don't  know,  and  that  is  happiness. 
And  he  may  have  plenty  of  money — I  dare  say  he 
has;  but  he's  what  I  call  a  poor  man.  I  don't 
want  you  to  have  no  such  friends." 

"  But  grandmother,  you  do  not  dislike  to  have 
him  in  the  house  these  two  days,  do  you  ?  " 


460  NOBODY. 

"  It  can't  be  helped,  my  dear,  and  we'll  do  the 
best  for  him  we  can.  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
have  no  such  friends." 

"  I  believe  we  should  go  out  of  the  world  to 
suit  grandmother,"  remarked  Charity.  "She  won't 
think  us  safe  as  long  as  we're  in  it." 

The  whole  family  went  to  church  the  next  morn 
ing.  Mr.  Dillwyn's  particular  object  however  was 
not  much  furthered.  He  saw  Lois  indeed  at  the 
breakfast  table;  and  the  sight  was  everything  his 
fancy  had  painted  it.  He  thought  of  Milton's 

"Pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure" — 

Only  the  description  did  not  quite  fit;  for  there 
was  a  healthy,  sweet  freshness  about  Lois  which 
gave  the  idea  of  more  life  and  activity,  mental 
and  bodily,  than  could  consort  with  a  pensive 
character.  The  rest  fitted  pretty  well;  and  the 
lines  ran  again  and  again  through  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
head.  Lois  was  gone  to  church  long  before  the 
rest  of  the  family  set  out;  and  in  church  she  did 
not  sit  with  the  others;  and  she  did  not  come 
home  with  them.  However,  she  was  at  dinner. 
But  immediately  after  dinner  Mrs.  Barclay  with 
drew  again  into  her  own  room,  and  Mr.  Dillwyn 
had  no  choice  but  to  accompany  her. 

"  What  now  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  do  you  do  the 
rest  of  the  day?" 

"  I  stay  at  home  and  read.  Lois  goes  to  Sunday 
school." 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  461 

Mr.  Dillwyn  looked  to  the  windows.  The  rain 
Mrs.  Barclay  threatened  had  come;  and  had  al 
ready  begun  in  a  sort  of  fury,  in  company  with  a 
wind  which  drove  it  and  beat  it,  as  it  seemed,  from 
all  points  of  the  compass  at  once.  The  lines  of 
rain  drops  went  slantwise  past  the  windows,  and 
then  beat  violently  upon  them;  the  ground  was 
wet  in  a  few  minutes;  the  sky  was  dark  with  its 
thick  watery  veils.  Wind  and  rain  were  holding 
revelry. 

"  She  will  not  go  out  in  this  weather,"  said  the 
gentleman,  with  conviction  which  seemed  to  be 
agreeable. 

"  The  weather  will  not  hinder  her,"  returned  Mrs. 
Barclay. 

"  This  weather?" 

"No.  Lois  does  not  mind  weather.  I  have 
learned  to  know  her  by  this  time.  Where  she 
thinks  she  ought  to  go,  or  what  she  thinks  she 
ought  to  do,  there  no  hindrance  will  stop  her.  It 
is  good  you  should  learn  to  know  her  too,  Philip." 

"  Pray  tell  me, — is  the  question  of  '  ought '  never 
affected  by  what  should  be  legitimate  hindrances?  " 

"  They  are  never  credited  with  being  legitimate," 
Mrs.  Barclay  said  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  The  prin 
ciple  is  the  same  as  that  old  soldier's  who  said,  you 
know,  when  ordered  upon  some  difficult  duty,  4  Sir, 
if  it  is  possible,  it  shall  be  done ;  and  if  it  is  impossi 
ble,  it  must  be  done  1 ' ' 

44  That  will  do  for  a  soldier/',  said  Dillwyn.  44  At 
what  o'clock  does  she  go  ?  " 


462  NOBODY. 

"  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  shall  expect  to 
hear  her  feet  pattering  softly  through  the  hall,  and 
then  the  door  will  open  and  shut  without  noise, 
and  a  dark  figure  will  shoot  past  the  windows." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  left  the  room  and  probably  made 
some  preparations;  for  when  a  few  minutes  later  a 
figure  all  wrapped  up  in  a  waterproof  cloak  did  pass 
softly  through  the  hall,  he  came  out  of  Mrs.  Bar 
clay's  room  and  confronted  it;  and  I  think  his  over 
coat  was  on. 

"Miss  Lois!  you  cannot  be  going  out  in  this 
storm?" 

"  O  yes.  The  storm  is  nothing — only  something 
to  fight  against." 

"  But  it  blows  quite  furiously." 

"  I  don't  dislike  a  wind,"  said  Lois  laying  her 
hand  on  the  lock  of  the  door. 

"You  have  no  umbrella?" 

"  Don't  need  it.  I  am  all  protected,  don't  you  see  ? 
Mr.  Dillwyn,  you  are  not  going  out?" 

"Why  not?" 

"But  you  have  nothing  to  call  you  out?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  The  same  thing,  I  venture 
to  presume,  that  calls  you  out, — duty.  Only  in  my 
case  the  duty  is  pleasure." 

"You  are  not  going  to  take  care  of  me?" 

"Certainly." 

"  But  there's  no  need.  Not  the  least  in  the 
world." 

"  From  your  point  of  view." 

He  was  so  alertly  ready,  had  the  door  open  and 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  463 

his  umbrella  spread  and  stood  outside  waiting  for 
her,  Lois  did  not  know  how  to  get  rid  of  him.  She 
would  surely  have  done  it  if  she  could.  So  she 
found  herself  going  up  the  street  with  him  by  her 
side,  and  the  umbrella  warding  off  the  wind  and 
rain  from  her  face.  It  was  vexatious,  and  amus 
ing.  From  her  face !  who  had  faced  Sharnpuashuh 
storms  ever  since  she  could  remember.  It  is  very 
odd  to  be  taken  care  of  on  a  sudden,  when  you  are 
accustomed,  and  perfectly  able,  to  take  care  of  your 
self.  It  is  also  agreeable. 

"  You  had  better  take  my  arm,  Miss  Lois,"  said 
her  companion.  "  I  could  shield  you  better." 

"  Well,"  said  Lois  half  laughing,  "  since  you  are 
here,  I  may  as  well  take  the  good  of  it — " 

And  then  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  got  things  as  he 
wanted  them. 

"  I  ventured  to  assume,  a  little  while  ago,  Miss 
Lois,  that  duty  was  taking  you  out  into  this  storm ; 
but  I  confess  my  curiosity  to  know  what  duty 
could  have  the  right  to  do  it.  If  my  curiosity  is 
indiscreet,  you  can  rebuke  it." 

"  It  is  not  indiscreet,"  said  Lois.  "  I  have  a  sort 
of  a  Bible  class,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  village,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  church." 

"  I  understood  it  was  something  of  that  kind,  or 
I  should  not  have  asked.  But  in  such  weather  as 
this,  surely  they  would  not  expect  you?" 

"  Yes,  they  would.  At  any  rate,  I  am  bound  to 
shew  that  I  expect  them." 

"Do  you  expect  them,  to  come  out  to-day?" 


464  NOBODY. 

"  Not  all  of  them,"  Lois  allowed.  "  But  if  there 
would  not  be  one,  still  I  must  be  there." 

"Why? — if  you  will  pardon  me  for  asking." 

"It  is  good  they  should  know  that  I  am  regular 
and  to  be  depended  on.  And  besides,  they  will  be 
sure  to  measure  the  depth  of  my  interest  in  the 
work  by  my  desire  to  do  it.  And  one  can  do  so  lit 
tle  in  this  world  at  one's  best,  that  one  is  bound  to 
do  all  one  can." 

"  All  one  can," — Mr.  Dillwyn  repeated. 

"You  cannot  put  it  at  a  lower  figure.  I  was 
struck  with  a  word  in  one  of  Mrs.  Barclay's  books 
— the  Life  and  Correspondence  of  John  Foster, — 
*  Power,  to  its  very  last  particle,  is  duty.' " 

"But  that  would  be  to  make  life  a  terrible 
responsibility. " 

"  Sa*y  noble, — not  terrible !  "  said  Lois. 

"I  confess  it  seems  to  me  terrible  also.  I  do 
not  see  how  you  can  get  rid  of  the  element  of 
terribleness." 

"Yes, — if  duty  is  neglected.  Not  if  duty  is 
done." 

"  Who  does  his  duty,  at  that  rate  ?  " 

" Some  people  try"  said  Lois. 

"Arid  that  trying  must  make  life  a  servitude." 

"  Service — not  servitude  !  "  exclaimed  Lois  again, 
with  the  same  wholesome,  hearty  ring  in  her  voice 
that  her  companion  had  noticed  before. 

"  How  do  you  draw  the  line  between  them  ?  "  he 
asked  with  an  inward  smile ;  and  yet  Mr.  Dillwyn 
was  earnest  enough  too. 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  465 

"There  is  more  than  a  line  between  them,"  said 
Lois.  "  There  is  all  the  distance  between  freedom 
and  slavery."  And  the  words  recurred  to  her,  "  I 
will  walk  at  liberty,  for  I  seek  thy  precepts";  but  she 
judged  they  would  not  be  familiar  to  her  compan 
ion  nor  meet  appreciation  from  him,  so  she  did  not 
speak  them.  "Service"  she  went  on,  "I  think  is 
one  of  the  noblest  words  in  the  world;  but  it  can 
not  be  rendered  servilely.  It  must  be  free,  from 
the  heart." 

"  You  make  nice  distinctions.  Service,  I  suppose 
you  mean,  of  one's  fellow  creatures  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lois,  "  I  do  not  mean  that.  Service 
must  be  given  to  God.  It  will  work  out  upon  one's 
fellow  creatures,  of  course." 

"Nice  distinctions  again,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"But  very  real !     And  very  essential." 

"  Is  there  not  service — true  service — that  is  giv 
en  wholly  to  one's  needy  fellows  of  humanity?  It 
seems  to  me  I  have  heard  of  such." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  such  service,"  said  Lois, 
" but  it  is  not  the  true.  It  is  partial,  and  arbitrary; 
it  ebbs  and  flows,  and  chooses;  and  is  found  con 
sorting  with  what  is  not  service,  but  the  contrary. 
True  service,  given  to  God,  and  rising  from  the  love 
of  him,  goes  where  it  is  sent  and  does  what  it  is 
bidden,  and  has  too  high  a  spring  erer  to  fail. 
Eeal  service  gives  all,  and  is  ready  for  every 
thing." 

"  How  much  do  you  mean,  I  wonder,  by  '  giving 
all '  ?  Do  you  use  the  words  soberly  ?  " 


466  NOBODY. 

"  Quite  soberly,"  said  Lois  laughing. 

"Giving  all  what?" 

"All  one's  power, — according  to  Foster's  judg 
ment  of  it." 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  would  end  in  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do.     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  how  much  a  man  or  a  woman 
would  give  who  gave  all  he  had  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  do." 

"  What  would  be  left  for  himself?  " 

Lois  did  not  answer  at  once ;  but  then  she  stopped 
short  in  her  walk  and  stood  still,  in  the  midst  of 
rain  and  wind,  confronting  her  companion.  And 
her  words  were  with  an  energy  that  she  did  not  at 
all  mean  to  give  them. 

"  There  would  be  left  for  him — all  that  the  riches 
and  love  of  God  could  do  for  his  child." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  gazed  into  the  face  that  was  turned 
towards  him,  flushed,  fired,  earnest,  full  of  a  grand 
consciousness,  as  of  a  most  simple  unconscious 
ness, — and  for  the  moment  did  not  think  of  reply 
ing.  Then  Lois  recollected  herself,  smiled  at  her 
self,  and  went  on. 

"  I  am  very  foolish  to  talk  so  much,"  she  said. 
"  I  do  not  know  why  I  do.  Somehow  I  think  it 
is  your  fault,  Mr.  Dillwyn.  I  am  not  in  the  habit, 
I  think,  of  holding  forth  so  to  people  who  ought 
to  know  better  than  myself." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  aware  that  I  was  speaking 
honestly,  and  that  I  do  not  know  better  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  I  thought  so,"  Lois  answered.     "  But 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  467 

that  does  not  quite  excuse  me.  Only — I  was  sorry 
for  you,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"Thank  you.  Now  may  I  go  on?  The  conver 
sation  can  hardly  be  so  interesting  to  you  as  it  is 
to  me." 

"  I  think  I  have  said  enough,"  said  Lois,  a  little 
shyly. 

"  No,  not  enough,  for  I  want  to  know  more.  The 
sentence  you  quoted  from  Foster,  if  it  is  true,  is 
overwhelming.  If  it  is  true,  it  leaves  all  the  world 
with  terrible  arrears  of  obligation." 

"  Yes — "  Lois  answered  half  reluctantly, — "  duty 
unfulfilled  is  terrible.  But,  not  '  all  the  world,'  Mr. 
Dillwyn." 

"  You  are  an  exception." 

"  I  did  not  mean  myself.  I  do  not  suppose  I  do 
all  I  ought  to  do.  I  do  try  to  do  all  I  know.  But 
there  are  a  great  many  beside  me,  who  do  better.' 

"  You  agree  then,  that  one  is  not  bound  by  duties 
unknown  ?  " 

Lois  hesitated.  "  You  are  making  me  talk  again, 
as  if  I  were  wise,"  she  said.  "  What  should  hinder 
any  one  from  knowing  his  duty,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  Suppose  a  case  of  pure  ignorance." 

"Then  let  ignorance  study." 

"Study  what?" 

"Mr.  Dillwyn,  you  ought  to  ask  somebody  who 
can  answer  you  better." 

"I  do  not  know  any  such  somebody." 

"  Haven't  you  a  Christian  among  all  your  friends  ?  " 

"I  have  not  a  friend  in  the  world,  of  whom  I 


468  NOBODY. 

could  ask  sucn  a  question  with  the  least  hope  of 
having  it  answered." 

"  Where  is  your  minister  ?  " 

"My  minister?  Clergyman,  you  mean?  Miss 
Lois,  I  have  been  a  wanderer  over  the  earth  for 
years.  I  have  not  any  '  minister.' " 

Lois  was  silent  again.  They  had  been  walking 
fast,  as  well  as  talking  fast,  spite  of  wind  and 
rain;  the  church  was  left  behind  some  time  ago, 
and  the  more  comely  and  elegant  part  of  the  vil 
lage  settlement. 

"  We  shall  have  to  stop  talking  now,"  Lois  said, 
"for  we  are  near  my  place." 

"  Which  is  your  place  ?  " 

"Do  you  see  that  old  schoolhouse?  a  little  fur 
ther  on  ?  We  have  that  for  our  meetings.  Some 
of  the  boys  put  it  in  order  and  make  the  fire  for 
me." 

"  You  will  let  me  come  in  ?  " 

"You?"  said  Lois.  "Oh  no!  Nobody  is  there 
but  my  class." 

"  You  will  let  me  be  one  of  them  to-day  ?  Seri 
ously, — I  am  going  to  wait  to  see  you  home ;  you 
will  not  let  me  wait  in  the  rain  ?  " 

"  I  shall  bid  you  go  home,"  said  Lois  laughing. 

"I  am  not  going  to  do  that." 

"  Seriously,  Mr.  Dillwyn,  I  do  not  need  the  least 
care." 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  nust  look  at  the  matter  from 
my  point  of  view." 

What  a  troublesome  man !   thought  Lois ;  but 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  469 

then  they  were  at  the  schoolhouse  door,  the  wind 
and  rain  came  with  such  a  wild  burst  that  it  seemed 
the  one  thing  to  do  to  get  under  shelter;  and  so 
Mr.  Dillwyn  went  in  with  her,  and  how  to  turn 
him  out  Lois  did  not  know. 

It  was  a  bare  little  place.  The  sanded  floor  gave 
little  help  or  seeming  of  comfort ;  the  wooden  chairs 
and  benches  were  old  and  hard;  however,  the  small 
stove  did  give  out  warmth  enough  to  make  the  place 
habitable,  even  to  its  furthest  corners.  Six  peo 
ple  were  already  there.  Lois  gave  a  rapid  glance 
at  the  situation.  There  was  no  time  and  it  was  no 
company  for  a  prolonged  battle  with  the  intruder. 

"Mr.  Dillwyn,"  she  said  softly,  "will  you  take 
a  seat  by  the  stove,  as  far  from  us  as  you  can; 
and  make  believe  you  have  neither  eyes  nor  ears  ? 
You  must  not  be  seen  to  have  either — by  any  use 
you  make  of  them.  If  you  keep  quite  still,  maybe 
they  will  forget  you  are  here.  You  can  keep  up 
the  fire  for  us." 

She  turned  from  him  to  greet  her  young  friends, 
and  Mr.  Dillwyn  obeyed  orders.  He  hung  up  his 
wet  hat  and  coat  and  sat  down  in  the  furthest 
corner;  placing  himself  so,  however,  that  neither 
eyes  nor  ears  should  be  hindered  in  the  exercise 
of  their  vocation,  while  his  attitude  might  have 
suggested  a  fit  of  sleepiness,  or  a  most  indifferent 
meditation  on  things  far  distant,  or  possibly  rest 
after  severe  exertion.  Lois  and  her  six  scholars 
took  their  places  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
which  was  too  small  to  prevent  every  word  they 


470  NOBODY. 

spoke  from  being  distinctly  heard  by  the  one  idle 
spectator.  A  spectator  in  truth  Mr.  Dillwyn  de 
sired  to  be,  not  merely  an  auditor;  so,  as  he  had 
been  warned  he  must  not  be  seen  to  look,  he  ar 
ranged  himself  in  a  manner  to  serve  both  purposes, 
of  seeing  and  not  seeing. 

The  hour  was  not  long  to  this  one  spectator, 
although  it  extended  itself  to  full  an  hour  and  a 
half.  He  gave  as  close  attention  as  ever  when 
a  student  in  college  he  had  given  to  lecture  or 
lesson.  And  yet,  though  he  did  this,  Mr.  Dillwyn 
was  not,  at  least  not  at  the  time,  thinking  much 
of  the  matter  of  the  lesson.  He  was  studying  the 
lecturer.  And  the  study  grew  intense.  It  was  not 
flattering  to  perceive,  as  he  soon  did,  that  Lois  had 
entirely  forgotten  his  presence.  He  saw  it  by  the 
free  unconcern  with  which  she  did  her  work,  as 
well  as  in  the  absorbed  interest  she  gave  to  it. 
Not  nattering,  and  it  cast  a  little  shadow  upon 
him,  but  it  was  convenient  for  his  present  purpose 
of  observation.  So  he  watched, — and  listened.  He 
heard  the  sweet  utterance  and  clear  enunciation, 
first  of  all;  he  heard  them  it  is  true  whenever  she 
spoke ;  but  now  the  utterance  sounded  sweeter  than 
usual,  as  if  there  were  a  vibration  from  some  fuller 
than  usual  mental  harmony,  and  the  voice  was  of 
a  silvery  melody.  It  contrasted  with  the  other 
voices,  which  were  more  or  less  rough  or  grating 
or  nasal,  too  high  pitched  or  low,  and  rough  ca- 
denced,  as  uncultured  voices  are  apt  to  be.  From 
the  voices,  Mr.  Dillwyn's  attention  was  drawn  to 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  471 

« 

what  the  voices  said.  And  here  he  found,  most 
unexpectedly,  a  great  deal  to  interest  him.  Those 
rough  voices  spoke  words  of  genuine  intelligence; 
they  expressed  earnest  interest;  and  they  shewed 
the  speakers  to  be  acute,  thoughtful,  not  unin 
formed,  quick  to  catch  what  was  presented  to 
them,  often  cunning  to  deal  with  it.  Mr.  Dillwyn 
was  in  danger  of  smiling,  more  than  once.  And 
Lois  met  them,  if  not  with  the  skill  of  a  practised 
logician,  with  the  quick  wit  of  a  woman's  intuition 
and  a  woman's  loving- sympathy,  armed  with  knowl 
edge  and  penetration  and  tact  and  gentleness  and 
wisdom.  It  was  something  delightful  to  hear  her 
soft  accents  answer  them,  with  such  hidden  strength 
under  their  softness;  it  was  charming  to  see  her 
gentleness  and  patience,  and  eagerness  too;  for 
Lois  was  talking  with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Dil 
lwyn  lost  his  wonder  that  her  class  came  out  in 
the  rain ;  he  only  wished  he  could  be  one  of  them 
and  have  the  privilege  too  ! 

It  was  impossible  but  that  with  all  this  mental 
observation  Mr.  Dillwyn's  eyes  should  also  take 
notice  of  the  fair  exterior  before  them.  They 
would  not  have  been  worthy  to  see  it  else.  Lois 
had  laid  off  her  bonnet  in  the  hot  little  room ;  it 
had  left  her  hair  a  little  loosened  and  disordered; 
yet  not  with  what  deserved  to  be  called  disorder; 
it  was  merely  a  softening  and  lifting  of  the  rich, 
full  masses,  adding  to  the  grace  of  the  contour, 
not  taking  from  it.  Nothing  could  be  plainer  than 
the  girl's  dress;  all  the  more  the  observer's  eye 


472  NOBODY. 

noted  the  excellent  lines  of  the  figure  and  the 
natural  charm  of  every  movement  and  attitude. 
The  charm  that  comes  and  always  must  come 
from  inward  refinement  and  delicacy,  when  com 
bined  with  absence  of  consciousness;  and  which 
can  only  be  helped,  not  produced,  by  any  perfec 
tion  of  the  physical  structure.  Then  the  tints  of 
absolute  health,  and  those  low,  musical,  sensitive 
tones,  flowing  on  in  such  sweet  modulations — 

What  a  woman  was  this !  Mr.  Dillwyn  could 
see,  too,  the  effect  of  Mrs.  Barclay's  work.  He 
was  sure  he  could.  The  whole  giving  of  that 
Bible  lesson  betrayed  the  refinement  of  mental 
training  and  culture;  even  the  management  of  the 
voice  told  of  it.  Here  was  not  a  fine  machine, 
sound  and  good,  yet  in  need  of  regulating  and 
working  and  lubricating  to  get  it  in  order;  all  that 
had  been  done,  and  the  smooth  running  told  how 
well.  By  degrees  Mr.  Dillwyn  forgot  the  lesson 
and  the  class  and  the  schoolhouse,  and  remember 
ed  but  one  thing  any  more;  and  that  was  Lois. 
His  head  and  heart  grew  full  of  her.  He  had  been 
in  the  grasp  of  a  strong  fancy  before;  a  fancy 
strong  enough  to  make  him  spend  money,  and 
spend  time,  for  the  possible  attainment  of  its  ob 
ject  ;  now  it  was  fancy  no  longer.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind,  as  a  man  makes  it  up  once  for  all ; 
not  to  try  to  win  Lois,  but  to  have  her.  She,  ho 
saw,  was  as  yet  ungrazed  by  any  corresponding 
feeling  towards  him.  That  made  no  difference. 
Philip  Dillwyn  had  one  object  in  life  from  this 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  473 

time.  He  hardly  saw  or  heard  Lois's  leave-takings 
with  her  class,  but  as  she  came  up  to  him  he 
rose. 

"  I  have  kept  you  too  long,  Mr.  Dillwyn ;  but  I 
could  not  help  it;  and  really,  you  know,  it  was 
your  own  fault." 

"Not  a  minute  too  long,"  he  assured  her;  and 
he  put  on  her  cloak  and  handed  her  her  bonnet, 
with  grave  courtesy  and  a  manner  which  Lois 
would  have  said  was  absorbed,  but  for  a  certain 
element  in  it  which  even  then  struck  her.  They 
set  out  upon  their  homeward  way,  but  the  walk 
home  was  not  as  the  walk  out  had  been.  The  rain 
and  the  wind  were  unchanged;  the  wind  indeed 
had  an  added  touch  of  waywardness  as  they  more 
nearly  faced  it,  going  this  way ;  and  the  rain  was 
driven  against  them  with  greater  fury.  Lois  was 
fain  to  cling  to  her  companion's  arm,  and  the  um 
brella  had  to  be  handled  with  discretion.  But  the 
storm  had  been  violent  enough  before,  and  it  was 
no  feature  of  that  which  made  the  difference. 
Neither  was  it  the  fact  that  both  parties  were  now 
almost  silent,  whereas  on  the  way  out  they  had 
talked  incessantly ;  though  it  was  a  fact.  Perhaps 
Lois  was  tired  with  talking,  seeing  she  had  been 
doing  nothing  else  for  two  hours,  but  what  ailed 
Philip  ?  And  what  gave  the  walk  its  new  charac 
ter?  Lois  did  not  know,  though  she  felt  it  in 
*  every  fibre  of  her  being.  And  Mr.  Dillwyn  did 
not  know,  though  the  cause  lay  in  him.  He  was 
taking  care  of  Lois ;  he  had  been  taking  care  of 


474  NOBODY. 

her  before;  but  now,  unconsciously,  he  was  doing 
it  as  a  man  only  does  it  for  one  woman  in  the 
world.  Hardly  more  careful  of  her,  yet  with  that 
indefinable  something  in  the  manner  of  it,  which 
Lois  felt  even  in  the  putting  on  of  her  cloak  in 
the  schoolhouse.  It  was  something  she  had  never 
touched  before  in  her  life,  and  did  not  now  know 
what  it  meant;  at  least  I  should  say  her  reason  did 
not  know;  yet  nature  answered  to  nature  infallibly 
and  by  some  hidden  intuition  of  recognition  the 
girl  was  subdued  and  dumb.  This  was  nothing 
like  Tom  Caruthers  and  anything  she  had  received 
from  him.  Tom  had  been  flattering,  demonstra 
tive,  obsequious ;  there  was  no  flattery  here,  and  no 
demonstration;  and  nothing  could  be  further  from 
obsequiousness.  It  was  the  delicate  reverence  which 
a  man  gives  to  only  one  woman  of  all  the  world; 
something  that  must  be  felt  and  cannot  be  feigned ; 
the  most  subtle  incense  of  worship  one  human  spirit 
can  render  to  another;  which  the  one  renders  and 
the  other  receives  without  either  being  able  to  tell 
how  it  is  done.  The  more  is  the  incense  sweet, 
penetrating,  powerful.  Lois  went  home  silently, 
through  the  rain  and  wind,  and  did  not  know  why 
a  certain  mist  of  happiness  seemed  to  encompass 
her.  She  was  ignorant  why  the  storm  was  so  very 
beneficent  in  its  action;  did  not  know  why  the 
wind  was  so  musical  and  the  rain  so  refreshing; 
could  not  guess  why  she  was  sorry  to  get  home. 
Yet  the  fact  was  before  her  as  she  stepped  in. 
"  It  has  done  you  no  harm  ! "  said  Mr.  Dillwyn 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA.  475 

smiling,  as  he  met  Lois's  eyes  and  saw  her  fresh, 
flushed  cheeks.  "  Are  you  wet  ?  " 

"I  think  not  at  all." 

"This  must  come  off  however,"  he  went  on, 
proceeding  to  unfasten  her  cloak;  "it  has  caught 
more  rain  drops  than  you  know."  And  Lois  sub 
mitted,  and  meekly  stood  still  and  allowed  the 
cloak,  very  wet  on  one  side,  to  be  taken  off  her. 

"  Where  is  this  to  go  ?  there  seems  to  be  no 
place  to  hang  it  here." 

"01  will  hang  it  up  to  dry  in  the  kitchen, 
thank  you,"  said  Lois,  offering  to  take  it. 

"  I  will  hang  it  up  to  dry  in  the  kitchen, — if 
you  will  shew  me  the  way.  You  cannot  handle 
it." 

Lois  could  have  laughed,  for  did  she  not  handle 
everything  ?  and  did  wet  or  dry  make  any  differ 
ence  to  her  ?  However,  she  did  not  on  this  occa 
sion  feel  like  contesting  the  matter;  but  with 
unwonted  docility  preceded  Mr.  Dillwyn  through 
the  sitting  room,  where  were  Mrs.  Armadale  and 
Madge,  to  the  kitchen  beyond,  where  Charity  was 
just  putting  on  the  tea  kettle. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

OPINIONS. 

MR.  DILLWYN  rejoined  Mrs.  Barclay  in  her 
parlour,  but  he  was  a  less  entertaining  man 
this  evening  than  he  had  been  during  the  former 
part  of  his  visit.  Mrs.  Barclay  saw  it,  and  smiled, 
and  sighed.  Even  at  the  tea-table,  things  were 
not  like  last  evening.  Philip  entered  into  no 
discussions,  made  no  special  attempts  to  amuse 
anybody,  attended  to  his  duties  in  the  unconscious 
way  of  one  with  whom  they  have  become  second 
nature,  and  talked  only  so  much  as  politeness 
required.  Mrs.  Barclay  looked  at  Lois,  but  could 
tell  nothing  from  the  grave  face  there.  Always 
on  Sunday  evenings  it  had  a  very  fair  sweet 
gravity. 

The  rest  of  the  time,  after  tea,  was  spent  in 
making  music.  It  was  become  a  usual  Sunday 
evening  entertainment.  Mrs.  Barclay  played,  and 
she  and  the  two  girls  sang.  It  was  all  sacred 
music,  of  course,  varied  exceedingly  however  by 
the  various  tastes  of  the  family.  Old  hymn  and 

im  tunes  were  what  Mrs.  Armadale  liked ;  and 
476 


OPINIONS.  477 

those  generally  came  first ;  then  the  girls  had  more 
modern  pieces,  and  with  those  Mrs.  Barclay  inter 
wove  an  anthem  or  a  chant  now  and  then.  Madge 
and  Lois  both  had  good  voices  and  good  natural 
taste  and  feeling;  and  Mrs.  Barclay's  instructions 
had  been  eagerly  received.  This  evening  Philip 
joined  the  choir;  and  Charity  declared  it  was 
"  better'n  they  could  do  in  the  Episcopal  church." 

"  Do  they  have  the  best  singing  in  the  Episcopal 
church  ?  "  asked  Philip  absently. 

"  Well,  they  set  up  to ;  and  you  see  they  give 
more  time  to  it.  Our  folks  won't  practise." 

"I  don't  care  how  folks'  voices  sound,  if  their 
hearts  are  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"But  you  may  notice,  voices  sound  better  if 
hearts  are  in  it,"  said  Dillwyn.  "That  made  a 
large  part  of  the  beauty  of  our  concert  this 
evening." 

"  Was  your'n  in  it  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Armadale 
abruptly. 

"My  heart  ?  In  the  words  ?  I  am  afraid  I 
must  own  it  was  not,  in  the  way  you  mean, 
madam.  If  I  must  answer  truth." 

"  Don't  you  always  speak  truth  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  may  say,  that  is  my  habit,"  Philip 
answered  smiling. 

"Then,  do  you  think  you  ought  to  sing  sech 
words  ?  if  you  don't  mean  'em  ?  " 

The  question  looks  abrupt,  on  paper.  It  did 
not  sound  equally  so.  Something  of  earnest  wist- 
fulness  there  was  in  the  old  lady's  look  and  manner, 


478  NOBODY. 

a  touch  of  solemnity  in  her  voice,  which  made  the 
gentleman  forgive  her  on  the  spot.  He  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"  Would  you  bid  me  not  join  in  singing  such 
words,  then  ?  " 

"  It's  not  my  place  to  bid  or  forbid.  But  you  can 
judge  for  yourself.  Do  you  set  much  valley  on 
professions  that  mean  nothing?" 

"  I  made  no  professions." 

"  Aint  it  professin',  when  you  say  what  the  hymns 
say?" 

"  If  you  will  forgive  rne — I  did  not  say  it,"  re 
sponded  Philip. 

"Aint  singin'  sayin'?" 

"  They  are  generally  looked  upon  as  essentially 
different.  People  are  never  held  responsible  for 
the  things  they  sing, — out  of  church,"  added  Philip 
smiling.  "  Is  it  otherwise  with  church  singing  ?  " 

"  What's  church  singin'  good  for,  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  to  put  the  minds  of  the  wor 
shippers  in  a  right  state; — to  sober  and  harmonize 
them." 

"  I  thought,  it  was  to  tell  the  Lord  how  we  felt," 
said  the  old  lady. 

"That  is  a  new  view  of  it,  certainly." 

"J  thought,  the  words  was  to  tell  one  how 
we  had  ought  to  feel,"  said  Charity.  "There 
wouldn't  more'n  one  in  a  dozen  sing,  mother,  if 
you  had  your  way;  and  then  we  should  have  nice 
music ! " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  nice  music," — said  the  old 


OPINIONS.  479 

lady,  with  a  kind  of  sober  tremble  in  her  voice, 
which  somehow  touched  Philip.  The  ring  of  truth 
was  there  at  any  rate. 

"  Could  the  world  be  managed,"  he  said  with 
very  gentle  deference;  "could  the  world  be  man 
aged  on  such  principles  of  truth  and  purity  ?  Must 
we  not  take  people  as  we  find  them  ?  " 

"Those  are  the  Lord's  principles,"  said  Mrs. 
Armadale. 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  the  world  is.  Must 
we  not,  a  little,  as  I  said,  take  people  as  we  find 
them?" 

"The  Lord  won't  do  that,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  He  will  either  make  them  better,  or  he  will  cast 
them  away."  . 

"  But  we  ?    We  must  deal  with  things  as  they  are." 

"  How  are  you  goin'  to  deal  with  'em  ?  " 

"  In  charity  and  kindness;  having  patience  with 
what  is  wrong,  and  believing  that  the  good  God 
will  have  more  patience  yet." 

"  You  had  better  believe  what  he  tells  you,"  the 
old  lady  answered,  somewhat  sternly. 

"  But  grandmother,"  Lois  put  in  here,  "  He  does 
have  patience." 

"  With  whom,  child  ?  " 

Lois  did  not  answer;  she  only  quoted  softly  the 
words — 

"  Plenteous  in  mercy,  long-suffering,  abundant 
in  goodness  and  truth  " — 

"Ay,  child;  but  you  know" what  happens  to  the 
houses  built  on  the  sand." 


480  NOBODY. 

The  party  broke  up  here,  Mrs.  Barclay  bidding 
good  night  and  leaving  the  dining  room,  whither 
they  had  all  gone  to  eat  apples.  As  Philip  parted 
from  Lois  he  remarked, — 

"I  did  not  understand  the  allusion  in  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale's  last  words." 

Lois's  look  fascinated  him.  It  was  just  a  mo 
ment's  look,  pausing  before  turning  away;  swift 
with  eagerness  and  intent  with  some  hidden  feel 
ing  which  he  hardly  comprehended.  She  only  said, 

"Look  in  the  end  of  the  seventh  chapter  of 
Matthew." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  when  the  door  was 
closed,  "  what  do  you  think  of  our  progress  ?  " 

"  Progress  ?  "  repeated  Philip  vacantly.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon !  " — 

"  In  music,  man  ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay  laughing. 

"  0  ! — Admirable.     Have  you  a  Bible  here  ?  " 

"A  Bible?"  Mrs.  Barclay  echoed.  "Yes— there 
is  a  Bible  in  every  room,  I  believe.  Yonder,  on 
that  table.  Why?  what  do  you  want  of  one  now?" 

"  I  have  had  a  sermon  preached  to  me,  and  I 
want  to  find  the  text." 

Mrs.  Barclay  asked  no  further,  but  she  watched 
him,  as  with  the  book  in  his  hand  he  sat  down 
before  the  fire  and  studied  the  open  page.  Studied 
with  grave  thoughtfulness,  drawing  his  brows  a 
little,  and  pondering  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  words 
for  some  length  of  time.  Then  he  bade  her  good 
night  with  a  smile,  and  went  away. 

He  went  away  in  good  earnest  next  day;  but 


OPINIONS.  481 

as  a  subject  of  conversation  in  the  village  Ms 
visit  lasted  a  good  while.  That  same  evening 
Mrs.  Marx  came  to  make  a  call,  just  before 
supper. 

"How  much  pork  are  you  goin'  to  want  this 
year,  mother  ? "  she  began,  with  the  business  of 
one  who  had  been  stirring  her  energies  with  a  walk 
in  a  cool  wind. 

"I  suppose,  about  as  usual,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"I  forget  how  much  that  is;  I  can't  keep  it  in 
my  head  from  one  year  to  another.  Besides,  I 
didn't  know  but  you'd  want  an  extra  quantity, 
if  your  family  was  goin'  to  be  larger." 

"  It  is  not  going  to  be  larger,  as  I  know." 

"  If  my  pork  aint,  I  shall  come  short  home.  It 
beats  me!  I've  fed  'em  just  the  same  as  usual, 
and  the  corn's  every  bit  as  good  as  usual, — never 
better;  good,  big,  fat,  yellow  ears,  that  had  ought 
to  make  a  porker's  heart  dance  for  joy ;  and  I  should 
think  they  were  suiferin'  from  continual  low  ness  o' 
spirits,  to  judge  by  the  way  they  dont  get  fat. 
They're  growing  real  long-legged  and  slab-sided 
— just  the  way  I  hate  to  see  pigs  look.  I  don' 
know  what's  the  matter  with  'em." 

"  Where  do  you  keep  'em  ?  " 

"Under  the  barn — just  where  they  always  be. 
Well,  you've  had  a  visiter  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Barclay  has." 

"I  understood  'twas  her  company;  but  you  saw 
him." 

"We  saw  him  as  much  as  she  did,"  put  in  Charity. 


482  NOBODY. 

"What's  he  like?" 

Nobody  answered. 

"  Is  he  one  of  your  high-flyers  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  high-flyers,  aunt 
Anne,"  said  Madge.  "  He  was  a  gentleman." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  I  saw  some  'gen 
tlemen  '  last  summer  at  Appledore — and  I  don't  want 
to  see  no  more.  Was  he  that  kind  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  there,"  said  Madge,  "  and  can't  tell.  I 
should  have  no  objection  to  see  a  good  many  of 
them,  if  he  is." 

"  I  heard  he  went  to  Sunday  School  with  Lois, 
through  the  rain." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  said  Lois. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  know?  " 

"  I  thought  nobody  was  out  but  me." 

"  Do  you  think  folks  will  see  an  umbrella  walkin' 
up  street,  in  the  rain,  and  not  look  to  see  if  there's 
somebody  under  it  ?  " 

"J  shouldn't,"  said  Lois.  "When  should  an 
umbrella  be  out  walking,  but  in  the  rain  ? " 

"Well,  go  along.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he? 
and  what  brings  him  to  Shampuashuh  ?  " 

"  He  came  to  see  Mrs.  Barclay,"  said  Madge. 

"  He's  a  sort  of  man  you  are  willin'  to  take 
trouble  for,"  said  Charity.  "Real  nice,  and  con 
siderate;  and  to  hear  him  talk,  it  is  as  good  as  a 
book;  and  he's  awfully  polite.  You  should  have 
seen  him  marching  in  here  with  Lois's  wet  cloak, 
out  to  the  kitchen  with  it,  and  hangin'  it  up.  So 
to  pay,  I  turned  round  and  hung  up  his'n.  One 


OPINIONS.  483 

good  turn  deserves  another,  I  told  him.  But  at 
first,  I  declare,  I  thought  I  couldn't  keep  from 
laughin'." 

Mrs.  Marx  laughed  a  little  here.  "  I  know  the 
sort,"  she  said.  "  Wears  kid  gloves  always,  and 
a  little  line  of  hair  over  his  upper  lip,  and  is 
lazy  like.  I  would  lose  all  my  patience  to  have 
one  o'  them  round  for  long,  smokin'  a  cigar  every 
other  thing  and  poisonin'  all  the  air  *for  half  a 
mile." 

"  I  think  he  is  sort  o'  lazy,"  said  Charity. 

"  He  don't  smoke,"  said  Lois. 

"Yes  he  does,"  said  Madge.  "I  found  an  end 
of  cigar  just  down  by  the  front  steps,  when  I  was 
sweeping." 

"I  don't  think  he's  a  lazy  man,  either,"  said 
Lois.  "That  slow  easy  way  does  not  mean  lazi 
ness." 

44  What  does  it  mean  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Marx 
sharply. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  us,  what  it  means,"  said  Mrs. 
Armadale,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  We  have 
no  concern  with  this  man,  He  came  to  see  Mrs. 
Barclay,  his  friend,  and  I  suppose  he'll  never  come 
again." 

"Why  shouldn't  he  come  again,  mother?"  said 
Charity.  "  If  she's  his  friend,  he  might  want  to 
see  her  more  than  once,  seems  to  me.  And  what's 
more,  he  is  coming  again.  I  heard  him  askin' 
her  if  he  might ;  and  then  Mrs.  Barclay  asl^d  me 
if  it  would  be  convenient,  and  I  said  it  would,  of 


484  NOBODY. 

course.  He  said  ne  would  be  comin'  back  from 
Boston  in  a  few  weeks,  and  he  would  like  to  stop 
again  as  he  went  by.  And  do  you  know  I  think 
she  coloured.  It  was  only  a  little,  but  she  aint  a 
woman  to  blush  much;  and  /  believe  she  knows 
why  he  wants  to  come,  as  well  as  he  does." 

"  Nonsense,  Charity  !  "  said  Madge  incredulously. 

"Then  half  the  world  are  busy  with  nonsense, 
that's  all  I  have  to  say;  and  I'm  glad  for  my  part 
I've  somethin'  better  to  do." 

"  Do  you  say  he's  comin'  again  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Armadale. 

"He  says  so,  mother. 

"What  for?" 

"Why,    to    visit    his    friend    Mrs.    Barclay, 
course." 

"She  is  our  friend,"  said  the  old  lady;  "and  her 
friends  must  be  entertained;  but  he  is  not  our 
friend,  children.  We  aint  of  his  kind,  and  he  aint 
of  our'n." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  Aint  he  good  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Marx. 

"  He's  very  good  !  "  said  Madge. 

"Not  in  grandmother's  way,"  said  Lois  softly. 

"Mother,"  said  Mrs.  Marx,  "you  can't  have 
everybody  cut  out  on  your  pattern." 

Mrs.  Armadale  made  no  answer. 

"  And  there  aint  enough  o'  your  pattern  to  keep 
one  from  bein'  lonesome,  if  we're  to  have  nothin' 
to  do  \vith  the  rest." 

"  Better  so,"  said  the  old  lady.     "  I  don't  want 


OPINIONS.  485 

no  company  for  my  chil'en  that  won't  help  'em  on 
the  road  to  heaven.  They'll  have  company  enough 
when  they  get  there." 

"  And  how  are  you  goin'  to  be  the  salt  o'  the 
earth,  then,  if  you  won't  touch  nothin'  ?  " 

"How,  if  the  salt  loses  its  saltness,  daughter?" 

"  Well  mother,  it  always  puzzles  me,  that  there's 
so  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  things !  I'll 
go  home  and  think  about  it.  Then  he  aint  one 
o'  your  Appledore  friends,  Lois?" 

"  Not  one  of  my  friends  at  all,  aunt  Anne." 

So  the  talk  ended.  There  was  a  little  private 
extension  of  it  that  evening,  when  Lois  and  Madge 
went  up  to  bed. 

"  It's  a  pity  grandma  is  so  sharp  about  things," 
the  latter  remarked  to  her  sister. 

"  *  Things '  ?  "  said  Lois.     "  What  things  ?  " 

« Well— people.  Don't  you  like  that  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"So  do  I.  And  she  don't  want  us  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  him." 

"  But  she  is  right,"  said  Lois.  "  He  is  not  a 
Christian." 

"  But  one  can't  live  only  with  Christians  in  this 
world.  And  Lois,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think ;  he  is 
a  great  deal  pleasanter  than  a  good  many  Chris 
tians  I  know." 

"  He  is  good  company,"  said  Lois.  "  He  has  seen 
a  great  deal  and  read  a  great  deal,  and  he  knows 
how  to  talk.  That  makes  him  pleasant." 


486  NOBODY. 

"Well,  he's  a  great  deal  more  improving  to  be 
with,  than  anybody  I  know  in  Shampuashuh." 

"  In  one  way." 

"  Why  shouldn't  one  have  the  pleasure  then,  and 
the  good  ?  if  he  isn't  a  Christian." 

"  The  pleasanter  he  is,  I  suppose  the  more  danger, 
grandmother  would  think." 

"Danger  of  what?" 

"  You  know,  Madge,  it  is  not  my  say-so,  nor  even 
grandmother's.  You  know,  Christians  are  not  of 
the  world." 

"But  they  must  see  the  world." 

"  If  we  were  to  see  much  of  that  sort  of  person, 
we  might  get  to  wishing  to  see  them  always." 

"By  'that  sort  of  person'  I  suppose  you  mean 
Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  Well,  I  have  got  so  far  as  that  al 
ready.  I  wish  I  could  see  such  people  always." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"  Why  ?    You  ought  to  be  glad,  at  my  good  taste." 

"  I  am  sorry,  because  you  are  wishing  for  what 
you  cannot  have." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  You  cannot  tell  what 
may  happen." 

"  Madge,  a  man  like  Mr.  Dillwyn  would  never 
think  of  a  girl  like  you  or  me." 

"  I  am  not  wanting  him  to  think  of  me,"  said 
Madge  rather  hotly.  "  But  Lois,  if  you  come  to 
that,  I  think  I — and  you — are  fit  for  anybody." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lois  quietly.  "  I  think  so  too.  But 
they  do  not  take  the  same  view.  And  if  they  did, 
Madge,  we  could  not  think  of  them." 


OPINIONS.  487 

"Why  not? — if  they  did.     I  do  not  hold  quite 
such  extreme  rules  as  you  and  grandmother  do." 
"And  the  Bible."— 

"  Other  people  do  not  think  the  Bible  is  so  strict." 
"You  know  what  the  words  are,  Madge." 
"  I  don't  know  what  the  words  mean." 
Lois  was  brushing  out  the  thick  masses  of  her 
beautiful  hair,   which   floated   about   over   her  in 
waves   of   golden   brown;   and   Madge   had   been 
thinking,   privately,   that   if  anybody   could  have 
just  that  view  of  Lois  his  scruples — if  he  had  any 
— would  certainly  give  way.     Now,  at  her  sister's 
last  words  however,  Lois  laid  down  her  brush ;  and 
coming  up  laid  hold  of  Madge  by  the  shoulders  and 
gave  her  a  gentle  shaking.     It  ended  in  something 
of  a  romp,  but  Lois  declared  Madge  should  never 
say  such  a  thing  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

TWO  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS. 

LOIS  was  inclined  now  to  think  it  might  be  quite 
as  well  if  something  hindered  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
second  visit.  She  did  not  wonder  at  Madge's  evi 
dent  fascination;  she  had  felt  the  same  herself,  long 
ago,  and  in  connection  with  other  people ;  the  charm 
of  good  breeding  and  gracious  manners  and  the  hab 
it  of  the  world,  even  apart  from  knowledge  and  cul 
tivation  and  the  art  of  conversation.  Yes,  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  was  a  good  specimen  of  this  sort  of  attraction ; 
and  for  a  moment  Lois's  imagination  recalled  that 
day's  two  walks  in  the  rain ;  then  she  shook  off  the 
impression.  Two  poor  Shampuashuh  girls  were  not 
likely  to  have  much  to  do  with  that  sort  of  society, 
and — it  was  best  they  should  not.  It  would  be  just 
as  well,  if  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  hindered  from  coming 
again. 

But  he  came.  A  month  had  passed;  it  was  the 
beginning  of  December  when  he  knocked  next  at 
the  door,  and  cold  and  grey  and  cloudy  and  windy 
as  it  is  December's  character  in  certain  moods  to 
be.  The  reception  he  got  was  hearty  in  propor- 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  489 

tion ;  fires  were  larger,  the  table  even  more  hospit 
ably  spread;  Mrs.  Barclay  even  more  cordial,  and 
the  family  atmosphere  not  less  genial.  Neverthe 
less  the  visit,  for  Mr.  Dillwyn's  special  ends,  was 
hardly. satisfactory.  He  could  get  no  private  speech 
with  Lois.  She  was  always  "  busy  " ;  and  at  meal 
times  it  was  obviously  impossible  and  would  have 
been  impolitic  to  pay  any  particular  attention  to  her. 
Philip  did  not  attempt  it.  He  talked  rather  to  ev 
ery  one  else ;  made  himself  delightful  company ;  but 
groaned  in  secret. 

"  Cannot  you  make  some  excuse  for  getting  her 
in  here?"  he  asked  Mrs.  Barclay  at  evening. 

"  Not  without  her  sister." 

"  With  her  sister,  then." 

"  They  are  very  busy  just  now  preparing  some 
thing  they  call  *  apple  butter.'  It's  unlucky,  Philip. 
I  am  very  sorry.  I  always  told  you  your  way  looked 
to  me  intricate." 

Fortune  favoured  him  however  in  an  unexpected 
way.  After  a  day  passed  in  much  inward  impa 
tience,  for  he  had  not  got  a  word  with  Lois,  and  he 
had  no  excuse  for  prolonging  his  stay  beyond  the 
next  day;  as  they  sat  at  supper,  the  door  opened 
and  in  came  two  ladies.  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  formally 
presented  to  one  of  them  as  to  "  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Marx" ; 
the  other  was  named  as  "  Mrs.  Seelye."  The  latter 
was  a  neat,  brisk  little  body,  with  a  capable  air 
and  a  mien  of  business ;  all  whose  words  came  out 
as  if  they  had  been  nicely  picked  and  squared  and 
sorted  and  packed,  and  served  in  order. 


490  NOBODY. 

"Sorry  to  interrupt,  Mrs.  Armadale" — she  be 
gan,  in  a  chirruping  little  voice.  Indeed  her  whole 
air  was  that  of  a  notable  little  hen  looking  after 
her  chickens.  Charity  assured  her  it  was  no 
interruption. 

"  Mrs.  Seelye  and  I  had  our  tea  hours  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Marx.  "I  had  muffins  for  her,  and  we  eat 
all  we  could  then.  We  don't  want  no  more  now. 
We're  on  business." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Seelye.  "Mrs.  Marx  and  I, 
we've  got  to  see  everybody,  pretty  much;  and 
there  aint  much  time  to  do  it  in ;  so  you  see  we 
can't  choose,  and  we  just  come  here  to  see  what 
you'll  do  for  us." 

"What  do  you  want  us  to  do  for  you,  Mrs. 
Seelye  ?  "  Lois  asked. 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  only  all  you  can.  We 
want  your  counsel,  and  then  your  help.  Mr.  Seelye, 
he  said,  Go  to  the  Lothrop  girls  first.  I  didn't 
come  first,  'cause  there  was  somebody  else  on  my 
way  here ;  but  this  is  our  fourth  call,  aint  it,  Mrs. 
Marx?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  never  get  you  away  from  No.  3," 
was  the  answer. 

"They  were  very  much  interested, — and  I  wanted 
to  make  them  all  understand — it  was  important  that 
they  should  all  understand — " 

"And  there  are  different  ways  of  understandm'," 
added  Mrs.  Marx;  "and  there  are  a  good  many  of 
em;  the  Hicks's,  I  mean;  and  so,  when  we  thought 
we'd  got  it  all  right  with  one,  we  found  somebody 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  491 

else  was  in  a  fog;  and  then  Tie  had  to  be  fetched 
out." 

"  But  we  are  all  in  a  fog,"  said  Madge  laughing. 
"What  are  you  coming  to?  and  what  are  we  to 
understand  ?  " 

"  We  have  a  little  plan,"  said  Mrs.  Seelye. 

"  It'll  be  a  big  one,  before  we  get  through  with 
it,"  added  her  coadjutor.  "Nobody'll  be  frightened 
here  if  you  call  it  a  big  one  to  start  with,  Mrs. 
Seelye.  I  like  to  look  things  in  the  face." 

"So  do  we,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale,  with  a  kind 
of  grim  humour, — "  if  you  will  give  us  a  chance." 

"  Well  it's  about  the  children,"  said  Mrs.  Seelye. 

"  Christmas — "  added  Mrs.  Marx. 

"  Be  quiet,  Anne,"  said  her  mother.  "  Go  on, 
Mrs.  Seelye.  Whose  children  ?  " 

"  I  might  say,  they  are  all  Mr.  Seelye's  children," 
said  the  little  lady  laughing;  "and  so  they  are  in 
a  way,  as  they  are  all  belonging  to  his  church. 
He  feels  he  is  responsible  for  the  care  of  'em, 
and  he  dont  want  to  lose  'em.  And  that's  what 
it's  all  about,  and  how  the  plan  came  up." 

"How's  he  goin'  to  lose  'em?"  Mrs.  Armadale 
asked,  beginning  now  to  knit  again. 

"Well,  you  see  the  other  church  is  rnakin'  great 
efforts;  and  they're  goin'  to  have  a  tree." 

"What  sort  of  a  tree?  and  what  do  they  want  a 
tree  for?" 

"  Why  a  fir  tree !  "—and,  "  Why  a  Christmas  tree !" 
cried  the  two  ladies  who  advocated  the  "plan," 
both  in  a  breath. 


492  NOBODY. 

"  Mother  don't  know  about  that,"  Mrs.  Marx  went 
on.  "  It's  a  new  fashion,  mother, — come  up  since 
your  day.  They  have  a  green  tree,  planted  in  a 
tub,  and  hung  with  all  sorts  of  things  to  make  it 
look  pretty;  little  candles  especially;  and  at  night 
they  light  it  up;  and  the  children  are  tickled  to 
death  with  it." 

"In  doors?" 

"Why  of  course  in  doors.  Couldn't  be  out  of 
doors,  in  the  snow." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  the  old  lady;  "  I  don't  un 
derstand  the  new  fashions.  I  should  think  they 
would  burn  up  the  house,  if  it's  in  doors." 

"  0  no,  no  danger,"  explained  Mrs.  Seelye.  "  They 
make  them  wonderfully  pretty,  with  the  branches 
all  hung  full  with  glass  balls,  and  candles,  and  rib 
bands,  and  gilt  toys,  and  papers  of  sugarplums — 
cornucopia,  you  know;  and  dolls  and  tops  and  jacks 
and  trumpets  and  whips,  and  everything  you  can 
think  of, — till  it  is  as  full  as  it  can  be,  and  the 
branches  hang  down  with  the  weight;  and  it 
looks  like  a  fairy  tree;  and  then  the  heavy  pres 
ents  lie  at  the  foot  round  about  and  cover  the 
tub." 

"  I  should  think  the  children  would  be  delighted," 
said  Madge. 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  as  much  fun  as  Santa  Glaus 
and  the  stocking,"  said  Lois. 

"  No,  nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  But  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  children's 
stockings,"  said  Mrs.  Seelye.  "They  may  hang  up 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  493 

as  many  as  they  like.  That's  at  home.  This  is  in 
the  church." 

"  0,  in  the  church !  I  thought  you  said  it  was 
in  the  house — in  people's  houses,"  said  Charity. 

" So  it  is;  but  this  tree  is  to  be  in  the  church." 

"  What  tree  ?  "  ' 

"  La !  how  stupid  you  are,  Charity,"  exclaimed 
her  aunt.  "  Didn't  Mrs.  Seelye  tell  you  ? — the  tree 
the  other  church  are  gettin'  up." 

»  Oh—"  said  Charity.  "  Well,  you  can't  hinder 
em,  as  I  see." 

"  Don't  want  to  hinder  'em  ?  What  should  we 
hinder  'em  for?  But  we  don't  want  'em  to  get  all 
our  chil'en  away;  that's  what  we're  lookin'  at." 

"Do  you  think  they'd  go?  " 

"  Mr.  Seelye's  afraid  it'll  thin  off  the  school  dread 
ful,"  said  Mr.  Seelye's  helpmate. 

"They're  safe  to  go,"  added  Mrs.  Marx.  "Ask 
children  to  step  in  and  see  fairyland,  and  why 
shouldn't  they  go  ?  I'd  go  if  I  was  they.  All  the 
rest  of  the  year  it  aint  fairyland  in  Shampuashuh. 
I'd  go  fast  -enough." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  what  you  are  goin'  to  do  about 
it,"  said  Charity,  "  but  to  sit  down  and  count  your 
chickens  that  are  left." 

"  That's  what  we  came  to  tell  you,"  said  the  min 
ister's  wife. 

"Well,  tell,"  said  Charity.  "You  haven't  told 
yet,  only  what  the  other  church  is  going  to  do." 

"  Well,  we  thought  the  only  way  was  for  us  to 
do  somethin'  too." 


494  NOBODY. 

"Only  not  another  tree,"  said  Lois.  "Not  that, 
for  pity's  sake." 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  little  minister's  wife,  with 
an  air  of  being  somewhat  taken  aback.  "  Why 
haven't  we  as  good  a  right  to  have  a  tree  as  they 
have?" 

"  Riglii,  if  you  like,"  said  Lois ;  "  but  right  isn't 
all." 

"  Go  on,  and  let's  hear  your  wisdom,  Lois,"  said 
her  aunt.  "  I  s'pose  you'll  say  first,  we  can't  do  it." 

"We  can  do  it,  perhaps,"  said  Lois;  "but  aunt 
Anne,  it  would  make  bad  feeling." 

"That's  not  our  lookout,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Marx. 
"We  haven't  any  bad  feeling." 

"  No,  not  in  the  least,"  added  Mrs.  Seelye.  "  We 
.only  want  to  give  our  children  as  good  a  time  as 
the  others  have.  That's  right." 

"  '  Let  nothing  be  done  through  strife  or  vain 
glory' — "  Mrs.  Armadale's  voice  was  here  heard 
to  say. 

"Yes,  I  know,  mother,  you  have  old-fashioned 
ideas,"  said  Mrs.  Marx;  "but  the  world  aint  as  it 
used  to  be  when  you  was  a  girl.  Now  everybody's 
puttin'  steam  on ;  and  churches  and  Sunday  schools 
as  well  as  all  the  rest.  We  have  organs  and  choirs 
and  concerts  and  celebrations  and  fairs  and  festi 
vals;  and  if  we  don't  go  with  the  crowd,  they'll 
leave  us  behind,  you  see." 

"I  don't  believe  in  it  all!"  said  Mrs.  Armadale. 

"  Well  mother,  we've  got  to  take  the  world  as  we 
find  it.  Now  the  children  all  through  the  village 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  495 

are  all  agog  with  the  story  of  what  the  yellow 
church  is  goin'  to  do ;  and  if  the  white  church  don't 
do  somethin',  they'll  all  run  t'other  way — that  you 
may  depend  on.  Children  are  children." 

"  I  sometimes  think,  the  grown  folks  are  children," 
said  the  old  lady. 

"  Well,  we  ought  to  be  children,"  said  Mrs.  Seelye; 
"  I  am  sure  we  all  know  that.  But  Mr.  Seelye 
thought  this  was  the  only  thing  we  could  do." 

"There  comes  in  the  second  difficulty,  Mrs. 
Seelye,"  said  Lois.  "  We  cannot  do  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  cannot.  We've  as  good  a 
place  for  it,  quite." 

"  I  mean,  we  cannot  do  it  satisfactorily.  It  will 
not  be  the  same  thing.  We  cannot  raise  the  money. 
Don't  it  take  a  good  deal  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  takes  considerable.  But  I  think,  if  we 
all  try,  we  can  scare  it  up  somehow.  " 

Lois  shook  her  head.  "The  other  church  is 
richer  than  we  are,"  she  said. 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Charity. 

Mrs.  Seelye  hesitated.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  said, — 
"they  have  one  or  two  rich  men.  Mr.  Georges — " 

"0  and  Mr.  Flare,"  cried  Madge,  "and  Buck,  and 
Setterdown ;  and  the  Kopers  and  the  Magnuses."" 

"Yes — "  said  Mrs.  Seelye;  "but  we  have  more 
people,  and  there's  none  of  'em  to  call  poor.  If  we 
get  'em  interested — and  those  we  have  spoken  to 
are  very  much  taken  with  the  plan;  very  much;  I 
think  it  would  be  a  great  disappointment  now  if 
we  were  to  stop;  and  the  children  have  got  talk- 


496  NOBODY. 

ing  about  it.  I  think  we  can  do  it;  and  it  would 
be  a  very  good  thing  for  the  whole  church,  to  get 
'em  interested — " 

"You  can  always  get  people  interested  in  play," 
said  Mrs.  Armadale.  "  What  you  want,  is  to  get 
'em  interested  in  work." 

"There'll  be  a  good  deal  of  work  about  this, 
before  it's  over,'1  said  Mrs.  Seelye  with  a  pleased 
chuckle.  "And  I  think,  when  they  get  their 
pride  up,  the  money  will  be  coming." 

Mrs.  Marx  made  a  grimace,  but  said  nothing. 

"  '  When  pride  cometh,  than  cometh  shame ' — " 
said  Mrs.  Armadale  quietly. 

"0  yes,  some  sorts  of  pride,"  said  the  little  min 
ister's  wife  briskly;  "but  I  mean  a  proper  sort. 
We  don't  want  to  let  our  church  go  down,  and  we 
don't  want  to  have  our  Sunday  school  thinned 
out;  and  I  can  tell  you,  where  the  children  go, 
there  the  fathers  and  mothers  will  be  going,  next 
thing." 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  "  said  Lois.  "  We 
have  not  fairly  heard  yet." 

"  Well,  we  thought  we'd  have  some  sort  of  £C 
celebration,  and  give  the  school  a  jolly  time  some 
how.  We'd  dress  up  the  church  handsomely,  with 
evergreens;  and  have  it  well  lighted;  and  then, 
we  would  have  a  Christmas  tree  if  we  could.  Or, 
if  we  couldn't,  then  we'd  have  a  real  good  hot  sup 
per,  and  give  the  children  presents.  But  I'm 
afraid,  if  we  don't  have  a  tree,  they'll  all  run  off 
to  the  other  church;  and  I  think  they're  going  al 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  497 

ready,  so  as  to  get  asked.  Mr.  Seelye  said  the 
attendance  was  real  thin  last  Sabbath." 

There  followed  an  animated  discussion  of  the 
whole  subject,  with  every  point  brought  up  again, 
and  again  and  again.  The  talkers  were  for  the 
most  part  Charity  and  Madge,  with  the  two  ladies 
who  had  come  in;  Mrs.  Armadale  rarely  throwing 
in  a  word,  which  always  seemed  to  have  a  disturb 
ing  power;  and  things  were  taken  up  and  gone 
over  anew  to  get  rid  of  the  disturbance.  Lois  sat 
silent  and  played  with  her  spoon.  Mrs.  Barclay 
and  Philip  listened  with  grave  amusement. 

"  Well,  I  can't  sit  here  all  night,"  said  Charity 
at  last,  rising  from  behind  her  tea-board.  "  Madge 
and  Lois, — -just  jump  up  and  put  away  the  things, 
won't  you;  and  hand  me  up  the  knives  and  plates. 
Don't  trouble  yourself,  Mrs.  Barclay.  If  other  folks 
in  the  village  are  as  busy  as  I  am,  you'll  come 
short  home  for  your  Christmas  work,  Mrs.  Seelye." 

"  It's  the  busy  people  always  that  help,"  said  the 
little  lady  propitiatingly. 

"That's  a  fact;  but  I  don't  see  no  end  o'  this  to 
take  hold  of.  You  haint  got  the  money;  and  if 
you  had  it,  you  don't  know  what  you  want ;  and 
if  you  did  know,  it  aint  in  Shampuashuh;  and  I 
don't  see  who  is  to  go  to  New  York,  or  New 
Haven,  shopping  for  you.  And  if  you  had  it, 
who  knows  how  to  fix  a  Christmas  tree?  Not  a 
soul  in  our  church." 

Mrs.  Barclay  and  her  guest  withdrew  at  this 
point  of  the  discussion.  But  later,  when  the  vis- 


498  NOBODY. 

iters  were  gone,  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room 
and  said, 

"  Madge  and  Lois,  can  you  come  in  here  for  a 
few  minutes?  It  is  business." 

The  two  girls  came  in,  Madge  a  little  eagerly; 
Lois,  Mrs.  Barclay  fancied,  with  a  manner  of  some 
reserve. 

"Mr.  Dillwyn  has  something  to  suggest,"  she 
began,  "about  this  plan  we  have  heard  talked 
over;  that  is,  if  you  care  about  it's  being  carried 
into  execution." 

"  I  care,  of  course,"  said  Madge.  "  If  it  is  to  be 
done,  I  think  it  will  be  great  fun." 

"  If  it  is  to  be  done,"  Lois  repeated.  "  Grand 
mother  does  not  approve  of  it ;  and  I  always  think, 
what  she  does  not  like,  I  must  not  like." 

"  Always  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"I  try  to  have  it  always.  Grandmother  thinks 
that  the  way — the  best  way — to  keep  a  Sunday 
school  together,  is  to  make  the  lessons  interesting." 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  right !  "  said  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"But  to  the  point,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "Lois, 
they  will  do  this  thing,  I  can  see.  The  question 
now  is,  do  you  care  whether  it  is  done  ill  or  well?" 

"  Certainly !  If  it  is  done,  I  should  wish  it  to 
be  as  well  done  as  possible.  Failure  is  more  than 
failure." 

"  How  about  ways  and  means  ?  " 

"  Money  ?  O  if  the  people  all  set  their  hearts 
on  it,  they  could  do  it  well  enough.  But  they  are 
slow  to  take  hold  of  anything  out  of  the  common 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  499 

run  they  are  accustomed  to.  The  wheels  go  in 
ruts  at  Shampuashuh." 

"Shampuashuh  is  not  the  only  place,"  said  Philip. 
"Then  will  you  let  an  outsider  help?  " 

"  Help  ?  We  would  be  very  glad  of  help,"  said 
Madge;  but  Lois  remarked,  "I  think  the  church 
ought  to  do  it  themselves,  if  they  want  to  do  it." 

"  Well,  hear  my  plan,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn.  "  I 
think  you  objected  to  two  rival  trees  ?  " 

"I  object  to  rival  anythings,"  said  Lois;  "in 
church  matters  especially." 

"Then  I  propose  that  no  tree  be  set  up,  but 
instead  that  you  let  Santa  Glaus  come  in  with 
his  sledge." 

"  Santa  Glaus !  "  cried  Lois.  "  Who  would  be 
Santa  Glaus?" 

"An  old  man  in  a  white  mantle,  his  head  and 
beard  covered  with  snow  and  fringed  with  icicles; 
his  dress  of  fur;  his  sledge  a  large  one  and  well 
heaped  up  with  things  to  delight  the  children. 
What  do  you  think?" 

Madge's  colour  rose  and  Lois's  eye  took  a  sparkle; 
both  were  silent.  Then  Madge  spoke. 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  plan  could  be  carried  out, 
any  more  than  the  other.  It  is  a  great  deal  bet 
ter,  it  is  magnificent;  but  it  is  a  great  deal  too 
magnificent  for  Shampuashuh." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Nobody  here  knows  how  to  do  it." 

"  I  know  how." 

"  You !     0  but, — that  would  be  too  much — w 


500  NOBODY. 

"  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  get  the  other  things 
ready,  and  let  it  be  known  that  at  the  proper  time 
Santa  Glaus  will  appear;  with  a  well-furnished  sled. 
Sharp  on  time." 

"  Well-furnished  ! — but  there  again — I  don't  be 
lieve  we  can  raise  money  enough  for  that." 

"  How  much  money  ? "  asked  Dillwyn  with  an 
amused  smile." 

"01  can't  tell — I  suppose  a  hundred  dollars  at 
least." 

"  I  have  as  much  as  that  lying  useless — it  may 
just  as  well  do  some  good.  It  never  was  heard 
that  anybody  but  Santa  Glaus  furnished  his  own 
sled.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  take  care  of 
that." 

"  How  splendid  !  "  cried  Madge.  "But  it  is  too 
much;  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  us  to  let  you  do 
all  that  for  a  church  that  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  ought  to  encourage  me 
in  my  first  endeavours  to  make  myself  of  some 
use  in  the  world.  Miss  Madge,  I  have  never,  so 
far,  done  a  bit  of  good  in  my  life." 

"  0  Mr.  Dillwyn  !  I  cannot  believe  that.  Peo 
ple  do  not  grow  useful  so  all  of  a  sudden,  without 
practice,"  said  Madge,  hitting  a  great  general  truth. 

"  It  is  a  fact,  however;"  said  he,  half  lightly,  and 
yet  evidently  meaning  what  he  said.  "I  have  lived 
thirty-two  years  in  the  world — nearly  thirty-three — 
without  making  my  life  of  the  least  use  to  anybody 
so  far  as  I  know.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  seize  a 
chance  ? " 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  501 

Lois's  eyes  were  suddenly  lifted,  and  then  as 
suddenly  lowered;  she  did  not  speak. 

"  I  can  read  that,"  he  said  laughingly,  for  his  eyes 
had  caught  the  glance.  "  You  mean,  if  I  am  so 
eager  for  chances,  I  might  make  them !  Miss  Lois, 
I  do  not  know  how." 

"Come,  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  "you  are 
making  your  character  unnecessarily  bad.  I  know 
you  better  than  that.  Think  what  you  have  done 
for  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he.  "  Think  what 
you  have  done  for  me.  That  score  cannot  be 
reckoned  to  my  favour.  Have  no  scruples,  Miss 
Madge,  about  employing  me.  Though  I  believe 
Miss  Lois  thinks  the  good  of  this  undertaking  a 
doubtful  one.  How  many  children  does  your  school 
number  ?  " 

"All  together, — and  they  would  be  sure  for 
once  to  be  all  together ! — there  are  a  hundred 
and  fifty." 

"  Have  you  the  names  ?  " 

"0  certainly." 

"  And  ages — proximately  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  too." 

"And  you  know  something,  I  suppose,  about 
many  of  them;  something  about  their  families 
and  conditions?" 

"  About  all  of  them,"  said  Madge.  "  Yes,  indeed 
we  do." 

"Till  Mrs.  Barclay  came,  you  must  understand," 
put  in  Lois  here,  "  we  had  nothing,  or  not  much, 


502  NOBODY. 

to  study  besides  Shampuashuh;  so  we  studied 
that." 

"And  since  Mrs.  Barclay  came? — "  asked  Philip. 

"  0  Mrs.  Barclay  has  been  opening  one  door  after 
another  of  knowledge,  and  we  have  been  peeping 
in." 

"And  what  special  door  offers  most  attraction 
to  your  view,  of  them  all  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think,  perhaps,  for  me,  geol 
ogy  and  mineralogy ;  but  almost  every  one  helps  in 
the  study  of  the  Bible." 

"  Oh,  do  they !  "  said  Dillwyn  somewhat  dryly. 

"I  like  music  best,"  said  Madge. 

"But  that  is  not  a  door  into  knowledge,"  objected 
Lois. 

"I  meant,  of  all  the  doors  Mrs.  Barclay  has 
opened  to  us." 

"Mrs.  Barclay  is  a  favoured  person." 

"  It  is  we  that  are  favoured,"  said  Madge.  "  Our 
life  is  a  different  thing  since  she  came.  We 
hope  she  will  never  go  away."  Then  Madge  col 
oured,  with  some  sudden  thought,  and  she  went  back 
to  the  former  subject.  "  Why  do  you  ask  about  the 
children's  ages  and  all  that,  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  " 

"I  was  thinking —  When  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  I 
like  to  do  it  well.  It  occurred  to  me,  that  as  Santa 
Glaus  must  have  something  on  his  sledge  for  each 
one,  it  might  be  good,  if  possible,  to  secure  some 
adaptation  or  fitness  in  the  gift.  Those  who  would 
like  books  should  have  books,  and  the  right  books; 
and  playthings  had  better  not  go  astray,  if  we  can 


Two  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS.  503 

help  it;  and  perhaps  the  poorer  children  would  be 
better  for  articles  of  clothing. — I  am  only  throwing 
out  hints." 

"  Capital  hints !  "  said  Lois.  "You  mean,  if  we 
can  tell,  what  would  be  good  for  each  one — I  think 
we  can,  pretty  nearly.  But  there  are  few  poor  peo 
ple  in  Shampuashuh,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  Shampuashuh  is  a  happy  place." 

44  This  plan  will  give  you  an  immensity  of  work, 
Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  scruples.  It  is  not  fair  to  let  you  do  it. 
What  is  Shampuashuh  to  you  ?  " 

"  It.  might  be  difficult  to  make  that  computa 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn  dryly.  "Have  no  scruples, 
Miss  Lois.  As  I  told  you,  I  have  nothing  better 
to  do  with  myself.  If  you  can  make  me  useful,  it 
will  be  a  rare  chance." 

**  But  there  are  plenty  of  other  things  to  do,  Mr. 
Dillwyn,"  said  Lois. 

He  gave  her  only  a  glance  and  smile  by  way  of 
answer,  and  plunged  immediately  into  the  business 
question  with  Madge.  Lois  sat  by,  silent  and 
wondering,  till  all  was  settled  that  could  be  settled 
that  evening  and  she  and  Madge  went  back  to  the 
other  room. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

AN  OYSTER  SUPPER. 

HURRAH!"  cried  Madge,  but  softly— "  Now  it 
will  go !  Mother !  what  do  you  think  ? 
Guess,  Charity.  Mr.  Dillwyn  is  going  to  take  our 
Sunday  school  celebration  on  himself;  he's  going 
to  do  it;  and  we're  to  have,  not  a  stupid  Christmas 
tree,  but  Santa  Claus  and  his  sled;  and  he'll  be 
Santa  Claus !  Won't  it  be  fun  ?  " 

"  Who'll  be  Santa  Claus  ?  "  said  Charity,  looking 
stupefied. 

"  Mr.  Dillwyn.  In  fact,  he'll  be  Santa  Claus  and 
his  sled  too;  he'll  do  the  whole  thing.  All  we 
have  got  to  do,  is  to  dress  the  children  -and  our 
selves  and  light  up  the  church.'' 

"  Will  the  committees  like  that?  " 

"  Like  it  ?  Of  course  they  will !  Like  it,  in 
deed  !  Don't  you  see  it  will  save  them  all  expense  ? 
They'll  have  nothing  to  do  but  dress  up  and  light 
up." 

"And  warm  up  too,  I  hope.  What  makes  Mr. 
Dillwyn  do  all  that?  I  don't  just  make  out." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Madge,  shaking  her  finger 
504 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  505 

at  the  others  impressively.  "  He's  after  Mrs.  Bar 
clay.  So  this  gives  him  a  chance  to  come  here 
again,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"After  Mrs.  Barclay?"  repeated  Charity.  "I 
want  to  know  !  " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Lois.  "She  is  too  old 
for  him." 

"She's  not  old,"  said  Madge.  "And  he  is  no 
chicken,  my  dear.  You'll  see.  It's  she  he's  after. 
He's  coming  next  time  as  Santa  Glaus,  that's  all. 
And  we  have  got  to  make  out  a  list  of  things — 
things  for  presents, — for  every  individual  girl  and 
boy  in-  the  Sunday  school ;  there's  a  job  for  you. 
Santa  Glaus  will  want  a  big  sled." 

"Who  is  going  to  do  wkat?"  inquired  Mrs.  Arma- 
dale  here.  "  I  don't  understand,  you  speak  so  fast, 
children." 

"  Mother,  instead  of  a  Christmas  tree  we  are 
going  to  have  Santa  Glaus  and  his  sled;  and 
the  sled  is  to  be  heaped  full  of  presents  for  all 
the  children;  and  Mr.  Dillwyn  is  going  to  do  it, 
and  get  the  presents,  and  be  Santa  Glaus  himself." 

"  How,  be  Santa  Glaus  ?  " 

"Why  he  will  dress  up  like  Santa  Glaus  and 
come  in  with  his  sled." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  church,  grandmother;  there  is  no  other 
place.  The  other  church  have  their  Sunday  school 
room  you  know;  but  we  have  none." 

"They  are  going  to  have  their  tree  in  the 
church,  though,"  said  Charity;  "they  reckon  the 


506  NOBODY. 

Sunday  school  room  won't  be  big  enough  to  hold 
all  the  folks." 

"Are  they  going  to  turn  the  church  into  a 
playhouse  ?  "  Mrs.  Armadale  asked. 

"  It's  for  the  sake  of  the  church  and  the  school, 
you  know,  mother.  Santa  Glaus  will  come  in  with 
his  sled  and  give  his  presents, — that  is  all.  At 
least,  that  is  all  the  play  there  will  be." 

"  What  else  will  there  be  ?  " 

"0  there'll  be  singing,  grandma,"  said  Madge; 
"hymns  and  carols  and  such  things,  that  the  chil 
dren  will  sing ;  and  speeches  and  prayers,  I  suppose." 

"  The  church  used  to  be  God's  house,  in  my  day," 
— said  the  old  lady  with  a  concerned  face,  looking 
up  from  her  knitting,  while  her  fingers  went  on 
with  their  work  as  busily  as  ever. 

"They  don't  mean  it  for  anything  else,  grand 
mother,"  said  Madge.  "  It's  all  for  the  sake  of  the 
school." 

"  Maybe  they  think  so,"  the  old  lady  answered. 

"  What  else,  mother  ?  what  else  should  it  be  ?  " 

But  this  she  did  not  answer. 

"  What's  Mr.  Dillwyn  got  to  do  with  it  ? "  she 
asked  presently. 

"  He's  going  to  help,"  said  Madge.  "  It's  noth 
ing  but  kindness.  He  supposes  it  is  something 
good  to  do,  and  he  says  he'd  like  to  be  useful." 

"  He  haint  no  idea  how,"  said  Mrs.  Armadale, 
"  Poor  creatur' !  You  can  tell  him,  it  aint  the 
Lord's  work  he's  doiri'." 

"But  we  cannot  tell  him  that,  mother,"  said  Lois. 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  507 

"  If  the  people  want  to  have  this  celebration, — and 
they  will, — hadn't  we  better  make  it  a  good  one  ? 
Is  it  really  a  bad  thing  V  " 

u  The  devil's  ways  never  help  no  one  to  heaven, 
child,  not  if  they  go  singin'  hymns  all  the  way." 

u  But  mother !  "  cried  Madge.  "  Mr.  Dillwyii 
aint  a  Christian  maybe,  but  he  aint  as  bad  as 
that." 

"  I  didn't  mean  Mr.  Dillwyn,  dear,  nor  110  one 
else.  I  meant  theatre  work." 

"Santa  Claus,  mother?" 

"  It's  actin',  aint  it  ?  " 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other. 

"  There's  very  little  of  anything  like  acting  about 
it,"  Lois  said. 

" k  Make  straight  paths  for  your  feet ' !  "  said  Mrs. 
Armadale,  rising  to  go  to  bed.  "  *  Make  straight 
paths  for  your  feet,'  children.  Straight  ways  is  the 
shortest  too.  If  the  chil'en  that  don't  love  their 
teachers  wants  to  go  to  the  yellow  church,  let  'em 
go.  I'd  rather  have  the  Lord  in  a  little  school, 
than  Santa  Claus  in  a  big  one." 

She  was  leaving  the  room,  but  the  girls  stayed 
her  and  begged  to  know  what  they  should  do  in 
the  matter  of  the  lists  they  were  engaged  to  pre 
pare  for  Mr.  Dillwyn? 

"You  must  do  what  you  think  best,"  she  said. 
"  Only  don't  be  mixed  up  with  it  all  any  more  than 
you  can  help,  Lois." 

Why  did  the  name  of  one  child  come  to  her 
lips  and  not  the  other  ?  Did  the  old  lady's  affec- 


508  NOBODY. 

tion,  or  natural  acuteness,  discern  that  Mr.  Dil 
lwyn  was  not  drawn  to  Shampuashuh  by  any  par 
ticular  admiration  of  his  friend  Mrs.  Barclay?  Had 
she  some  of  that  preternatural  intuition,  plain  old 
country  woman  though  she  was,  which  makes  a 
woman  see  the  invisible  and  hear  the  inaudible? 
which  serves  as  one  of  the  natural  means  of  de 
fence  granted  to  the  weaker  creatures.  I  do  not 
know;  1  do  not  think  she  knew;  however,  the 
warning  was  given,  and  not  on  that  occasion 
alone.  And  as  Lois  heeded  all  her  grandmother's 
admonitions,  although  in  this  case  without  the 
most  remote  perception  of  this  possible  ground 
to  them,  it  followed  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  gained  less 
by  his  motion  than  he  had  hoped  and  anticipated. 
The  scheme  went  forward,  hailed  by  the  whole 
community  "belonging  to  the  white  church,  with 
the  single  exception  of  Mrs.  Armadale.  It  went 
forward  and  was  brought  to  a  successful  termina 
tion.  I  might  say,  a  triumphant  termination ;  only 
the  triumph  was  not  for  Mr.  Dillwyn,  or  not  in 
the  line  where  he  wanted  it.  He  did  his  part 
admirably.  A  better  Santa  Glaus  was  never  seen, 
nor  a  better  filled  sled.  And  genial  pleasantness, 
and  wise  management,  and  cool  generalship,  and 
fun  and  kindness,  were  never  better  represented. 
So  it  was  all  through  the  consultations  and  arrange 
ments  that  preceded  the  festival,  as  well  as  on  the 
grand  occasion  itself;  and  Shampuashuh  will  long 
remember  the  time  with  wonder  and  exultation; 
but  it  was  Madge  who  was  Mr.  Dillwyn's  coadjutor 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  509 

and  fellow  counseller.  It  was  Madge  and  Mrs. 
Barclay  who  helped  him  in  all  the  work  of  pre 
paring  and  ticketing  the  parcels  for  the  sled;  as 
well  as  in  the  prior  deliberations  as  to  what  the 
parcels  should  be.  Madge  seemed  to  be  the  one 
at  hand  always  to  answer  a  question.  Madge 
went  with  him  to  the  church ;  and  in  general  Lois, 
though  sympathizing  and  curious  and  interested 
and  amused,  was  very  much  out  of  the  play.  Not 
so  entirely  as  to  make  the  fact  striking;  only 
enough  to  leave  Mr.  Dillwyn  disappointed  and 
tantalized. 

I  am  not  going  into  a  description  of  the  festival 
and  the  show.  The  children  sang;  the  minister 
made  a  speech  to  them,  not  ten  consecutive  words 
of  which  were  listened  to  by  three  quarters  of  the 
people.  The  church  was  filled  with  men,  women 
and  children;  the  walls  were  hung  with  festoons 
and  wreaths  and  emblazoned  with  mottoes;  the  an 
thems  and  carols  followed  each  other  till  the  last 
thread  of  patience  in  the  waiting  crowd  gave  way. 
And  at  last  came  what  they  were  waiting  for — 
Santa  Glaus,  all  fur  robes  and  snow  and  icicles, 
dragging  after  him  a  sledge  that  looked  like  a 
small  mountain  with  the  heap  of  articles  piled  and 
packed  upon  it.  And  then  followed  a  very  busy 
and  delightful  hour  and  a  half,  during  which  the 
business  was — the  distribution  of  pleasure.  It  was 
such  warm  work  for  Santa  Glaus,  that  at  the  time 
he  had  no  leisure  for  thinking.  Naturally,  the 
thinking  came  afterwards. 


510  NOBODY. 

He  and  Mrs.  Barclay  sat  by  her  fire,  resting, 
after  coining  home  from  the  church.  Dillwyn 
Was  very  silent  and  meditative. 

"  You  must  be  glad  it  is  done,  Philip,"  said  his 
friend,  watching  him,  and  wishing  to  get  at  his 
thoughts. 

"  I  have  no  particular  reason  to  be  glad." 

"  You  have  done  a  good  thing." 

"I  am  not  sure  if  it  is  a  good  thing.  Mrs. 
Armadale  does  not  think  so." 

"  Mrs.  Armadale  has  rather  narrow  notions." 

"I  don't  know.  I  should  be  glad  to  be  sure 
she  is  not  right.  It's  discouraging," — he  added 
with  half  a  smile; — "for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  set  myself  to  work;  and  now  am  not  at  all 
certain  that  I  might  not  just  as  well  have  been 
idle." 

"  Work  is  a  good  thing  in  itself,"  said  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  smiling. 

"  Pardon  me ! — work  for  an  end.  Work  without 
an  end — or  with  the  end  not  attained — it  is  no  bet 
ter  than  a  squirrel  in  a  wheel." 

"You  have  given  a  great  deal  of  pleasure." 

"To  the  children !  For  ought  I  know,  they  might 
have  been  just  as  well  without  it.  There  will  be  a 
reaction  to-morrow,  very  likely;  and  then  they  will 
wish  they  had  gone  to  see  the  Christmas  tree  at 
the  other  church." 

"  But  they  were  kept  at  their  own  church." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  is  any  good  ?  Perhaps 
the  teaching  at  the  other  school  is  the  best." 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  511 

"You  are  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  sympathiz- 
ingly. 

"Not  that.  I  have  done  nothing  to  tire  me;  but 
it  strikes  me  it  is  very  difficult  to  see  one's  ends  in 
doing  good;  much  more  difficult  than  to  see  the 
way  to  the  ends." 

"  You  have  partly  missed  your  end,  haven't  you  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Barclay  softly. 

He  moved  a  little  restlessly  in  his  chair;  then 
got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room;  then 
came  and  sat  down  again. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  next  ?  "  she  asked  in 
the  same  way. 

"  Suppose  you  invite  them — the  two  girls — or  her 
alone — to  make  you  a  visit  in  New  York  ?  " 

"Where?" 

"At  any  hotel  you  prefer;  say,  the  Windsor." 

"0  Philip,  Philip!"— 

"  What  ? — You  could  have  pleasant  rooms,  and 
be  quite  private  and  comfortable;  as  much  as  if 
you  were  in  your  own  house." 

"  And  what  should  we  cost  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  thinking  of  that  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  will 
get  you  a  house,  if  you  like  it  better ;  but  then  you 
would  have  the  trouble  of  a  staff  of  servants.  1 
think  the  Windsor  would  be  much  the  easiest  plan." 

"You  are  in  earnest !  " 

"  In  earnest !  "  he  repeated  in  surprise.  "  Have 
you  ever  questioned  it  ?  You  judge  because  you 
never  saw  me  in  earnest  in  anything  before  in  my 
life?" 


512  NOBODY. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "I  always 
knew  it  was  in  you.  What  you  wanted  was  only 
an  object." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  my  plan  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid  they  would  not  come.  There  is  the 
care  of  the  old  grandmother;  they  would  not  leave 
everything  to  their  sister  alone." 

"Tempt  them  with  pictures  and  music,  and  the 
opera." 

"The  opera!  Philip,  she  would  not  go  to  a  the 
atre,  or  anything  theatrical,  for  any  consideration. 
They  are  very  strict  on  that  point,  and  Sunday 
keeping,  and  dancing.  Do  not  speak  to  her  of  the 
opera." 

"  They  are  not  so  far  wrong.  I  never  saw  a  de 
cent  opera  yet  in  my  life." 

"  Philip !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barclay  in  the  greatest 
surprise.  "  I  never  heard  you  say  anything  like 
that  before." 

"  I  suppose  it  makes  a  difference,"  he  said  thought 
fully,  "  with  what  eyes  a  man  looks  at  a  thing.  And 
dancing — I  don't  think  I  care  to  see  her  dance." 

"  Philip !     You  are  extravagant." 

"  I  believe  I  should  be  fit  to  commit  murder  if 
I  saw  her  waltzing  with  anybody." 

"  Jealous  already  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Barclay  slyly. 

"  If  you  like. — Do- you  see  her  as  I  see  her?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

There  was  a  tone  in  the  last  words  which  gave 
Mrs.  Barclay's  heart  a  kind  of  constriction.  She 
answered  with  gentle  sympathy,  "  I  think  I  do." 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  513 

"  I  have  seen  handsomer  women,"  he  went  on ; 
— "Madge  is  handsomer,  in  a  way;  you  rnay  see 
many  women  more  beautiful,  according  to  the 
rules ;  but  I  never  saw  any  one  so  lovely !  " 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  so  lovely !  "  he  repeated. 
"  She  is  most  like — " 

"  A  white  lily,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  No,  that  is  not  her  type.  No.  As  long  as  the 
world  stands,  a  rose  just  open  will  remain  the  fair 
est  similitude  for  a  perfect  woman.  It's  commonness 
cannot  hinder  that.  She  is  not  an  unearthly  Den- 
drobium,  she  is  an  earthly  rose — 

"'Not  too  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food — ' 

" — If  one  could  find  the  right  sort  of  human  nature! 
Just  so  fresh,  unconscious,  and  fair;  with  just  such 
a  dignity  of  purity  about  her.  I  cannot  fancy  her 
at  the  opera,  or  dancing." 

"  A  sort  of  unapproachable  tea-rose  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Barclay  smiling  at  him,  though  her  eyes  were 
wistful. 

"No,"  said  he,  "a  tea-rose  is  too  fragile.  There 
is  nothing  of  that  about  her,  thank  heaven  !  " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  ''there  is  nothing  but 
sound  healthy  life  about  her;  mental  and  bodily; 
and  I  agree  with  you,  sweet  as  ever  a  human  life 
can  be.  In  the  garden  or  at  her  books, — hark ! 
that  is  for  supper." 

For  here  there  came  a  slight  tap  on  the  door. 


514  NOBODY. 

"Supper!"  cried  Philip. 

"Yes;  it  is  rather  late,  and  the  girls  promised 
me  a  cup  of  coffee,  after  your  exertions !  But  I 
dare  say  everybody  wants  some  refreshment  by 
this  time.  Come !  " 

There  was  a  cheery  supper  table  spread  in  the 
dining  room;  coffee  indeed,  and  Stony  Creek  oys 
ters,  and  excellently  cooked.  Only  Charity  and 
Madge  were  there;  Mrs.  Armadale  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  Lois  was  attending  upon  her.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  however  was  served  assiduously. 

"  I  hope  you're  hungry !  You've  done-  a  load  of 
good  this  evening,  Mr.  Dillwyn,"  said  Charity,  as 
she  gave  him  his  coffee. 

"  Thank  you.  I  don't  see  the  connection  ?  "  said 
Philip,  with  an  air  as  different  as  possible  from  that 
he  had  worn  in  talking  to  Mrs.  Barclay  in  the  next 
room. 

"  People  ought  to  be  hungry  when  they  have 
done  a  great  deal  of  work,"  Madge  explained,  as 
she  gave  him  a  plate  of  oysters. 

"  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  done  any  work." 

"0  well!  I  suppose  it  was  play  to  you,"  said 
Charity;  "but  that  don't  make  any  difference. 
You've  done  a  load  of  good.  Why  the  children 
will  never  be  able  to  forget  it,  nor  the  grown  folks 
either,  as  far  as  that  goes ;  they'll  talk  of  it,  and  of 
you,  for  two  years,  and  more." 

"I  am  doubtful  about  the  real  worth  of  fame, 
Miss  Charity,  even  when  it  lasts  two  years." 

"  0  but  you've  done  so  much  good! "  said  the  lady. 


AN  OYSTER  SUPPER.  515 

"  Everybody  sees  now  that  the  white  church  can  hold 
her  own.  Nobody'll  think  of  making  disagreeable 
comparisons,  if  they  have  fifty  Christmas  trees." 

"  Suppose  I  had  helped  the  yellow  church  ?  " 

Charity  looked  as  if  she  did  not  know  what  he 
would  be  at.  Just  then  in  came  Lois  and  took  her 
place  at  the  table ;  and  Mr.  Dillwyn  forgot  all  about 
rival  churches. 

"  Here's  Mr.  Dillwyn  don't  think  he's  done  any 
good,  Lois! "  cried  her  elder  sister.  "Do  cheer  him 
up  a  little.  I  think  it's  a  shame  to  talk  so.  Why 
we've  done  all  we  wanted  to,  and  more.  There 
won't  a  soul  go  away  from  our  church  or  school 
after  this,  now  they  see  what  we  can  do;  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  we  got  some  accessions  from 
the  other  instead.  And  here's  Mr.  Dillwyn  says  he 
don't  know  as  he's  done  any  good ! " 

Lois  lifted  her  eyes  and  met  his,  and  they  both 
smiled. 

"  Miss  Lois  sees  the  matter  as'  I  do,"  he  said. 
"These  are  capital  oysters.  Where  do  they  come 
from?" 

"But  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  "you  have  given 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  Isn't  that  good  ?  " 

"  Depends—"  said  he.  "  Probably  it  will  be  fol 
lowed  by  a  reaction." 

"  And  you  have  kept  the  church  together,"  added 
Charity,  who  was  zealous. 

"  By  a  rope  of  sand,  then,  Miss  Charity." 

"At  any  rate,  Mr.  Dillwyn,  you  meant  to  do 
good,"  Lois  put  in  here. 


516  NOBODY. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Miss  Lois.  I  am  afraid  I  was 
thinking  more  of  pleasure,  myself;  and  shall  expe 
rience  myself  the  reaction  I  spoke  of.  I  think  I 
feel  the  shadow  of  it  already,  as  a  coming  event." 

"  But  if  we  aren't  to  have  any  pleasure,  because 
afterwards  we  feel  a  little  flat, — and  of  course  we 
do,"  said  Charity;  "everybody  knows  that.  But, 
for  instance,  if  we're  not  to  have  green  peas  in 
summer,  because  we  can't  have  'em  any  way  but 
dry  in  winter, — things  would  be  very  queer! 
Queerer  than  they  are ;  and  they're  queer  enough 
already." 

This  speech  called  forth  some  merriment. 

"You  think  even  the  dry  remains  of  pleasure 
are  better  than  nothing  !  "  said  Philip.  "  Perhaps 
you  are  right." 

"  And  to  have  those,  we  must  have  had  the  green 
reality,"  said  Lois  merrily. 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  way  of  keeping  pleas 
ure  green  ? "  said  Dillwyn. 

"Vain,  vain,  Mr.  Dillwyn!"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 
" '  Tout  lasse,  tout  casse,  tout  passe  ! '  Don't  you  know  ? 
Solomon  said,  I  believe,  that  all  was  vanity.  And 
he  ought  to  know." 

"  But  he  didn't  know,"  said  Lois  quickly. 

"  Lois !  "  said  Charity— "  it's  in  the  Bible." 

"  I  know  it  is  in  the  Bible  that  he  said  so,"  Lois 
rejoined  merrily. 

"  Was  he  not  right,  then  ?  "  Mr.  Dillwyn  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  Lois  answered,  now  gravely,  "if  you 
take  simply  his  view." 


AN  OYSTER  SUFFER.  517 

"  What  was  his  view  ?     Won't  you  explain  ?  " 

"I  suppose  you  aint  going  to  set  up  to  be  wiser 
than  Solomon,  at  this  time  of  day,"  said  Charity  se 
verely.  But  that  stirred  Lois's  merriment  again. 

"  Explain,  Miss  Lois  ! "  said  Dillwyn. 

"  I  am  not  Solomon,  that  I  should  preach,"  she 
said. 

"  You  just  said  you  knew  better  than  he,"  said 
Charity.  "  How  you  should  know  better  than  the 
Bible,  I  don't  see.  It's  news." 

"  Why  Charity,  Solomon  was  not  a  good  man." 

"  How  came  he  to  write  Proverbs,  then  ?  " 

"  At  least,  he  was  not  always  a  good  man." 

"  That  don't  hinder  his  knowing  what  was  van 
ity,  does  it  ?  " 

"  But  Lois ! "  said  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  Go  back,  and 
tell  us  your  secret,  if  you  have  one.  How  was  Sol 
omon's  view  mistaken  ?  or  what  is  yours  ?  " 

"These  things  were  all  given  for  our  pleasure, 
Mrs.  Barclay." 

"But  they  die — and  they  go — and  they  fade," 
said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"You  will  not  understand  me,"  said  Lois;  "and 
yet  it  is  true.  If  you  are  Christ's — then,  'all  things 
are  yours;  .  .  .  the  world,  or  life,  or  death,  or  things 
present,  or  things  to  come:  all  are  yoUrs.'  There 
is  no  loss,  but  there  comes  more  gain." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  Mr.  Dillwyn  have  sornV-*nore 
oysters,"  said  Charity;  "and  Madge,  do  hand  along 
Mrs.  Barclay's  cup.  You  mustn't  talk,  if  you  can't 
eat  at  the  same  time.  Lois  aint  Solomon  yet,  if 


518  NOBODY. 

she  does  preach.  You  shut  up,  Lois,  and  mind 
your  supper.  My  rule  is,  to  enjoy  things  as  I  go 
along;  and  just  now,  it's  oysters." 

"  I  will  say  for  Lois,"  here  put  in  Mrs.  Barclay, 
"that  she  does  exemplify  her  own  principles.  I 
never  knew  anybody  with  such  a  spring  of  per 
petual  enjoyment." 

"  She  aint  happier  than  the  rest  of  us,"  said  the 
elder  sister. 

"  Not  so  happy  as  grandmother,"  added  Madge. 
"At  least,  grandmother  would  say  so.  I  don't  know." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

BREAKING    UP. 

MR.  DILLWYN  went  away.  Things  returned 
to  their  normal  condition  at  Shampuashuh, 
saving  that  for  a  while  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
talk  about  the  Santa  Clans  doings  and  the  princi 
pal  actor  in  them,  and  no  end  of  speculations  as 
to  his  inducements  and  purposes  to  be  served  in 
taking  so  much  trouble.  For  Shampuashuh  people 
were  shrewd,  and  did  not  believe  any  more  than 
King  Lear  that  anything  could  come  of  nothing. 
That  he  was  not  moved  by  general  benevolence, 
poured  out  upon  the  school  of  the  white  church, 
was  generally  agreed.  "  What's  we  to  him  ?  "  asked 
pertinently  one  of  the  old  ladies;  and  vain  efforts 
were  made  to  ascertain  Mr.  Dillwyn's  denomina 
tion.  "  For  all  I  kin  make  out,  he  hain't  got  none," 
was  the  declaration  of  another  matron.  "  J  don't 
b'lieve  he's  no  better  than  he  should- be."  Which 
was  ungrateful,  and  hardly  justified  Miss  Charity's 
prognostications  of  enduring  fame;  by  which  of 
course  she  meant  good  fame.  Few  had  seen  Mr. 

Dillwyn  undisguised,   so  that  they  could  give  a 

(519) 


520  NOBODY. 

report  of  him ;  but  Mrs.  Marx  assured  them  he  was 
"a  real  personable  man;  nice  and  plain,  and  takin' 
no  airs.  She  liked  him  first  rate." 

"  Who's  he  after?     Not  one  o'  your  gals?  " 

"Mercy,  no!  He,  indeed!  He's  one  of  the  high 
flyers;  he  won't  come  to  Shampuashuh  to  look  for 
a  wife.  'Seems  to  me  he's  made  o'  money;  and 
he's  been  everywhere ;  he's  fished  for  crocodiles  in 
the  Nile,  and  eaten  his  luncheon  at  the  top  of  the 
Pyramids  of  Egypt,  and  sailed  to  the  North  Pole 
to  be  sure  of  cool  lemonade  in  summer.  He  won't 
marry  in  Shampuashuh." 

"  What  brings  him  here  then  ?  " 

"  The  spirit  of  restlessness,  I  should  say.  Those 
people  that  have  been  everywhere,  you  may  notice, 
can't  stay  nowhere.  I  always  knew  there  was  fools 
in  the  world,  but  I  didnt  know  there  was  so  many 
of  'em  as  there  be.  He  aint  no  fool  neither,  some 
ways ;  and  that  makes  him  a  bigger  fool  in  the  end ; 
only  I  don't  know  why  the  fools  should  have  all 
the  money." 

And  so,  after  a  little,  the  talk  about  this  theme 
died  out,  and  things  settled  down,  not  without 
some  of  the  reaction  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  predicted; 
but  they  settled  down,  and  all  was  as  before  in 
Shampuashuh.  Mr.  Dillwyn  did  not  come  again 
to  make  a  visit,  or  Mrs.  Marx's  aroused  vigilance 
would  have  found  some  ground  for  suspicion.  There 
did  come  numerous  presents  of  game  arid  fruit  from 
him,  but  they  were  sent  to  Mrs.  Barclay,  and  could 
not  be  objected  against,  although  they  came  in  such 


BREAKING  UP.  521 

quantities  that  the  whole  household  had  to  combine 
to  dispose  of  them.  What  would  Philip  do  next  ? 
— Mrs.  Barclay  queried.  As  he  had  said,  he  could 
not  go  on  with  repeated  visits  to  the  house.  Madge 
and  Lois  would  not  hear  of  being  tempted  to  New 
York,  paint  the  picture  as  bright  as  she  would. 
Things  were  not  ripe  for  any  decided  step  on  Mr. 
Dillwyn's  part,  and  how  should  they  become  so  ? 
Mrs.  Barclay  could  not  see  the  way.  She  did  for 
Philip  what  she  could  by  writing  to  him,  whether 
for  his  good  or  his  harm  she  could  not  decide.  She 
feared  the  latter.  She  told  him,  however,  of  the 
sweet,  quiet  life  she  was  leading;  of  the  reading 
she  was  doing  with  the  two  girls,  and  the  whole 
family;  of  the  progress  Lois  and  Madge  were  mak 
ing  in  singing  and  drawing  and  in  various  branches 
of  study;  of  the  walks  in  the  fresh  sea  breezes,  and 
the  cozy  evenings  with  wood  fires  and  the  lamp; 
and  she  told  him  how  they  enjoyed  his  game,  and 
what  a  comfort  the  oranges  were  to  Mrs.  Armadale. 

This  lasted  through  January,  and  then  there 
came  a  change.  Mrs.  Armadale  was  ill.  There 
was  no  more  question  of  visits,  or  of  studies;  and 
all  sorts  of  enjoyments  and  occupations  gave  place 
to  the  one  absorbing  interest  of  watching  and  wait 
ing  upon  the  sick  one.  And  then,  that  ceased  too. 
Mrs.  Armadale  had  caught  cold,  she  had  not  strength 
to  throw  off  disease ;  it  took  violent  form,  and  in  a 
few  days  ran  its  course.  Very  suddenly  the  little 
family  found  itself  without  its  head. 

There  was  nothing  to  grieve  for,  but  their  own 


522  NOBODY. 

loss.  The  long,  weary,  earth  journey  was  done, 
and  the  traveller  had  taken  up  her  abode  where 
there  is 

"The  rest  begun, 
That  Christ  hath  for  his  people  won. 

She  had  gone  triumphantly.  "  Through  God  we 
shall  do  valiantly" — being  her  last  uttered  words. 
Her  children  took  them  as  a  legacy,  and  felt  rich. 
But  they  looked  at  her  empty  chair,  and  counted 
themselves  poorer  than  ever  before.  Mrs.  Barclay 
saw  that  the  mourning  was  deep.  Yet  with  the 
reserved  strength  of  New  England  natures,  it  made 
no  noise,  and  scarce  any  show. 

Mrs.  Barclay  lived  much  alone  those  first  days. 
She  would  gladly  have  talked  to  somebody;  she 
wanted  to  know  about  the  affairs  of  the  little 
family,  but  saw  no  one  to  talk  to.  Until,  two  or 
three  days  after  the  funeral,  coming  home  one 
afternoon  from  a  walk  in  the  cold,  she  found  her 
fire  had  died  out;  and  she  went  into  the  next 
room  to  warm  herself.  There  she  saw  none  of 
the  usual  inmates.  Mrs.  Armadale's  chair  stood 
on  one  side  the  fire,  unoccupied,  and  on  the  other 
side  stood  uncle  Tim  Hotchkiss. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hotchkiss.  May  I  come 
and  warm  myself?  I  have  been  out,  and  I  am 
half  frozen." 

u  I  guess  you're  welcome  to  most  anything  in 
this  house,  ma'am, — and  fire  we  wouldn't  grudge 
to  anybody.  Sit  down,  ma'am ; "  and  he  set  a 
chair  for  her.  "  It's  pretty  tight  weather." 


BREAKING  UP.  523 

"We  had  nothing  like  this  last  winter,"  said 
Mrs.  Barclay  shivering.  «, 

"  We  expect  to  hev  one  or  two  snaps  in  the 
course  of  the  winter,"  said  Mr.  Hotchkiss.  "  Shamp- 
Tiashuh-aint  what  you  call  a  cold  place;  but  we 
expect  to  see  them  two  snaps.  It  comes  season 
able  this  time.  I'd  rayther  hev  it  now  than  in 
March.  My  sister — that's  gone, — she  could  al 
ways  tell  you  how  the  weather  was  goin'  to  be. 
I've  never  seen  no  one  like  her  for  that." 

"Nor  for  some  other  things,"  said  Mrs.  Bar 
clay.  "  It  is  a  sad  change  to  feel  her  place 
empty." 

"Ay,"  said  uncle  Tim,  with  a  glance  at  the 
unused  chair, — "it's  the  difference  between  full  and 
empty.  '  I  went  out  full,  and  the  Lord  has  brought 
me  back  empty/  Ruth's  mother-in-law  said." 

"Who  is  Ruth?"  Mrs.  Barclay  asked,  a  little 
bewildered,  and  willing  to  change  the  subject ;  for 
she  noticed  a  suppressed  quiver  in  the  hard  features. 
"Do  I  know  her?" 

"I  mean  Ruth  the  Moabitess.  Of  course  you 
know  her.  She  was  a  poor  heathen  thing,  but 
she  got  all  right  at  last.  It  was  her  mother-in-law 
that  was  bitter.  Well — troubles  hadn't  ought  to 
make  us  bitter.  I  guess  there's  allays  somethin' 
wrong  when  they  do." 

"  Hard  to  help  it,  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  She  wouldn't  ha'  let  you  say  that,"  said  the 
old  man,  indicating  sufficiently  by  his  accent  of 
whom  he  was  speaking.  "  There  warn't  no  bit'ter- 


524  NOBODY. 

ness  in  her;  and  she  had  seen  trouble  enough  1 
She's  out  o'  it  now.'* 

"  What  will  the  girls  do?  Stay  on  and  keep  the 
house  here  just  as  they  have  done?  " 

"Well,  I  don'  know,"  said  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  evi 
dently  glad  to  welcome  a  business  question,  and 
now  taking  a  chair  himself.  "Mrs.  Marx  and 
me,  we've  ben  arguin'  that  question  out,  and  it 
aint  decided.  There's  one  big  house  here,  and 
there's  another  where  Mrs.  Marx  lives;  and  there's 
one  little  family,  and  here's  another  little  family. 
It's  expensive  to  scatter  over  so  much  ground. 
They  had  ought  to  come  to  Mrs.  Marx,  or  she  had 
ought  to  move  in  here,  and  then  the  other  house 
could  be  rented.  That's  how  the  thing  looks  to 
me.  It's  expensive  for  five  people  to  take  two  big 
houses  to  live  in.  I  know,  the  girls  have  got  you 
now;  but  they  might  not  keep  you  allays;  and 
we  must  look  at  things  as  they  be." 

"  I  must  leave  them  in  the  spring,"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay  hastily. 

"In  the  spring,  must  ye  !  " 

"  Must,"  she  repeated.  "  I  would  like  to  stay 
here  the  rest  of  my  life;  but  circumstances  are 
imperative.  I  must  go  in  the  spring." 

"Then  I  think  that  settles  it,"  said  Mr.  Hotch 
kiss.  "  I'm  glad  to  know  it.  That  is !  of  course 
I'm  sorry  ye're  goin';  the  girls  be  very  fond  of 
you." 

"And  I  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay;  "but  I 
must  go." 


BREAKING  UP.  525 

After  that,  she  waited  for  the  chance  of  a  talk 
with  Lois.  She  waited  not  long.  The  household 
had  hardly  settled  down  into  regular  ways  again 
after  the  disturbance  of  sickness  and  death,  when 
Lois  came  one  evening  at  twilight  into  Mrs.  Barclay's 
room.  She  sat  down,  at  first  was  silent,  and  then 
burst  into  tears.  Mrs.  Barclay  let  her  alone,  know 
ing  that  for  her  just  now  the  tears  were  good.  And 
the  woman  who  had  seen  so  much  heavier  life- 
storms  looked  on  almost  with  a  feeling  of  envy 
at  the  weeping  which  gave  so  Dimple  and  frank 
expression  to  grief.  Until  this  feeling  was  over 
come  by  another,  and  she  begged  Lois  to  weep  no 
more. 

"  I  do  not  mean  it — I  did  not  mean  it — "  said 
Lois  drying  her  eyes.  "  It  is  ungrateful  of  me;  for 
we  have  so  much  to  be  thankful  for.  I  am  so  glad 
for  grandmother  !  " — Yet  somehow  the  tears  went 
on  falling. 

VGlad?" — repeated  Mrs.  Barclay  doubtfully. 
"  You  mean,  because  she  is  out  of  her  suffering." 

"  She  did  not  suffer  much.  It  is  not  that.  I  am 
BO  glad  to  think  she  has  got  home ! " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay  in  a  constrained 
voice,  "to  such  a  person  as  your  grandmother, 
death  has  no  fear.  Yet  life  seems  to  me  more  de 
sirable." 

"  She  has  entered  into  life !  "  said  Lois.  "  She  is 
where  she  wanted  to  be,  and  with  what  she  loved 
best.  And  I  am  very,  very  glad !  even  though  1 
do  cry." 


526  NOBODY. 

"How  can  you  speak  with  such  certainty,  Lois? 
I  know,  in  such  a  case  as  that  of  your  grandmother 
there  could  be  no  fear;  and  yet  I  do  not  see  how 
you  can  speak  as  if  you  knew  where  she  is,  and 
with  whom  ?  " 

"Only  because  the  Bible  tells  us,"  said  Lois, 
smiling  even  through  wet  eyes.  "  Not  the  place; 
it  does  not  tell  us  the  place ;  but  with  Christ.  That 
they  are ;  and  that  is  all  we  want  to  know. 

"  'Beyond  the  sighing  and  the  weeping — ' 

"  it  makes  me  gladder  than  ever  1  can  tell  you,  to 
think  of  it." 

"  Then  what  are  those  tears  for,  my  dear  ?  " 

"It's  the  turning  over  a  leaf,"  said  Lois  sadly, 
"  and  that  is  always  sorrowful.  And  I  have  lost — 
Uncle  Tim  says,"  she  broke  off  suddenly,  "  he  says, 
— can  it  be  ? — he  says  you  say  you  must  go  from 
us.  in  the  spring?" 

"That  is  turning  over  another  leaf,"  said  Mrs. 
Barclay. 

"But  is  it  true?" 

"Absolutely  true.  Circumstances  make  it  im 
perative.  It  is  not  my  wish.  I  would  like  to  stay 
here  with  you  all  my  life." 

"  I  wish  you  could.  I  half  hoped  you  would," 
said  Lois  wistfully. 

"Bat  I  cannot,  my  dear.     I  cannot." 

"Then  that  is  another  thing  over,"  said  Lois. — 
"What  a  good  time  it  has  been,  this  year  and 
a  half  you  have  been  with  us!  how  much  worth 


BREAKING  UP.  527 

to  Madge  and  me!     But   won't   you    come    back 
again  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not.  You  will  not  miss  me  so  much ;  you 
will  all  keep  house  together,  Mr.  Hotchkiss  tells 
me." 

"/shall  not  be  here,"  said  Lois. 
"  Where  will  you  be  ?  "     Mrs.  Barclay  started. 
"I  don't  know;  but  it  will  be  best  for  me  to  do 
something  to  help  along.     I  think  I  shall  take  a 
school  somewhere.     I  think  I  can  get  one." 

"A  school,  my  dear?  Why  should  you  do  such 
a  thing?" 

"To  help  along,"  said  Lois.  "You  know,  we 
have  not  much  to  live  on  here  at  home.  I  should 
make  one  less  here,  and  I  should  be  earning  a  little, 
besides." 

-"Very  little,  Lois!" 
"Very  little  will  do." 

"  But  you  do  a  great  deal  now  towards  the  fam 
ily  support.  What  will  become  of  your  garden  ?  " 
"  Uncle  Tim  can  take  care  of  that.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Barclay,  even  if  I  could  stay  at  home,  I  think  I 
ought  not.  I  ought  to  be  doing  something — be  of 
some  use  in  the  world.  I  am  not  needed  here,  now 
dear  grandmother  is  gone;  and  there  must  be  some 
other  place  where  I  am  needed." 

"  My  dear,  somebody  will  want  you  to  keep  house 
for  him,  some  of  these  days." 

Lois  shook  her  head.  "  I  do  not  think  of  it,"  she 
said.  "  I  do  not  think  it  is  very  likely ;  that  is,  any 
body  I  should  want.  But  if  it  were  true,"  she 


528  NOBODY. 

added  looking  up  and  smiling,  "  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  present  duty." 

"  My  dear,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  your  going 
into  such  drudgery! " 

"  Drudgery?  "  said  Lois.  "  I  do  not  know, — per 
haps  I  should  not  find  it  so.  But  I  may  as  well  do 
it  as  somebody  else." 

"  You  are  fit  for  something  better." 

"There  is  nothing  better,  and  there  is  nothing 
happier,"  said  Lois  rising,  "  than  to  do  what  God 
gives  us  to  do.  I  should  not  be  unhappy,  Mrs. 
Barclay.  It  wouldn't  be  just  like  these  days  we 
have  passed  together,  I  suppose ; — these  days  have 
been  a  garden  of  flowers." 

And  what  have  they  all  amounted  to  ?  thought 
Mrs.  Barclay  when  she  was  left  alone.  Have  I 
done  any  good? — or  only  harm? — by  acceding  to 
that  mad  proposition  of  Philip's.  Some  good,  surely ; 
these  two  girls  have  grown  and  changed,  mentally, 
at  a  great  rate  of  progress;  they  are  educated,  cul 
tivated,  informed,  refined,  to  a  degree  that  I  would 
never  have  thought  a  year  and  a  half  could  do. 
Even  so!  have  I  done  them  good?  They  are  lifted 
quite  out  of  the  level  of  their  surroundings;  and  to 
be  lifted  so,  means  sometimes  a  barren  living  alone. 
Yet  I  will  not  think  that;  it  is  better  to  rise  in  the 
scale  of  being,  if  ever  one  can,  whatever  comes  of 
it;  what  one  is  in  oneself  is  of  more  importance 
than  one's  relations  to  the  world  around.  But  Philip? 
—  I  have  helped  him  nourish  this  fancy — and  it  is 
not  a  fancy  now — it  is  the  man's  whole  life.  Heigh 


BREAKING  UP.  529 

ho !  I  begin  to  think  he  was  right,  and  that  it  is 
very  difficult  to  know  what  is  doing  good  and  what 
isn't.  I  must  write  to  Philip — 

So  she  did,  at  once.  She  told  him  of  the  contem 
plated  changes  in  the  family  arrangements ;  of  Lois's 
plan  for  teaching  a  district  school;  and  declared 
that  she  herself  must  now  leave  Shampuashuh. 
She  had  done  what  she  came  for,  whether  for  good 
or  for  ill.  It  was  done;  and  she  could  no  longer 
continue  living  there  on  Mr.  Dillwyn's  bounty. 
Now  it  would  be  mere  bounty,  if  she  staid  where 
she  was;  until  now  she  might  say  she  had  been 
doing  his  work.  His  work  was  done  now,  her  part 
of  it;  the  rest  he  must  finish  for  himself.  Mrs. 
Barclay  would  leave  Shampuashuh  in  April. 

This  letter  would  bring  matters  to  a  point,  she 
thought,  if  anything  could;  she  much  expected  to 
see  Mr.  Dillwyn  himself  appear  again  before  March 
was  over.  He  did  not  come  however;  he  wrote  a 
short  answer  to  Mrs.  Barclay,  saying  that  he  was 
sorry  for  her  resolve,  and  would  combat  it  if  he 
could;  but  felt  that  he  had  not  the  power.  She 
must  satisfy  her  fastidious  notions  of  independence, 
and  he  could  only  thank  her  to  the  last  day  of  his 
life  for  what  she  had  already  done  for  him ;  service 
which  thanks  could  never  repay.  He  sent  this  let 
ter,  but  said  nothing  of  coming;  and  he  did  not 
come. 

Later,  Mrs.  Barclay  wrote  again.  The  household 
changes  were  just  about  to  be  made;  she  herself 
had  but  a  week  or  two  more  in  Shampuashuh ;  arid 


530  NOBODY. 

Lois,  against  all  expectation,  had  found  opportunity 
immediately  to  try  her  vocation  for  teaching.  The 
lady  placed  over  a  school  in  a  remote  little  village, 
had  suddenly  died;  and  the  trustees  of  the  school 
had  considered  favourably  Lois's  application.  She 
was  going  in  a  day  or  two  to  undertake  the  charge 
of  a  score  or  two  of  boys  and  girls,  of  all  ages,  in  a 
wild  arid  rough  part  of  the  country;  where  even 
the  accommodations  for  her  own  personal  comfort, 
Mrs.  Barclay  feared,  would  be  of  the  plainest. 

To  this  letter  also  she  received  an  answer, 
though  after  a  little  interval.  Mr.  Dillwyn  wrote, 
he  regretted  Lois's  determination;  regretted  that 
she  thought  it  necessary;  but  appreciated  the 
straight-forward,  unflinching,  sense  of  duty  which 
never  consulted  with  ease  or  selfishness.  He  him 
self  was  going,  he  added,  on  business,  for  a  time, 
to  the  North ;  that  is,  not  Massachusetts,  but  Canada. 
He  would  therefore  not  see  Mrs.  Barclay  until  after 
a  considerable  interval. 

Mrs.  Barclay  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this 
letter.  Had  Philip  given  up  his  fancy?  It  was 
not  like  him.  Men  are  fickle,  it  is  true;  but  fickle 
in  his  friendships  she  had  never  known  Mr.  Dil 
lwyn  to  be.  Yet  this  letter  said  nothing  of  love, 
or  hope,  or  fear;  it  was  cool,  friendly,  business 
like.  Mrs.  Barclay  nevertheless  did  not  know 
how  to  believe  in  the  business.  He  have  business ! 
What  business?  She  had  always  known  him  as 
an  easy,  graceful,  pleasure-taker;  finding  his  pleas 
ure  in  no  evil  ways  indeed;  kept  from  that  by  early 


BREAKING  UP.  531 

associations,  or  by  his  own  refined  tastes  and  sense 
of  honour ;  but  never  living  to  anything  but  pleas 
ure.  His  property  was  ample  and  unencumbered; 
eyen  the  care  of  that  was  not  difficult  and  did  not 
require  much  of  his  time.  And  now,  just  when 
he  ought  to  put  in  his  claim  for  Lois,  if  he  was 
ever  going  to  make  it;  just  when  she  was  set 
loose  from  her  old  ties  and  marking  out  a  new 
and  hard  way  of  life  for  herself,  he  ought  to  come ; 
and  he  was  going  on  business  to  Canada!  Mrs. 
Barclay  was  excessively  disgusted  and  disappointed. 
She  had  not  indeed  all  along  seen  how  Philip's  woo 
ing  could  issue  successfully,  if  it  ever  came  to  the 
point  of  wooing ;  the  elements  were  too  discordant, 
and  principles  too  obstinate ;  and  yet  she  had  worked 
on  in  hope,  vague  and  doubtful,  but  still  hope,  think 
ing  highly  herself  of  Mr.  Dillwyn's  pretensions  and 
powers  of  persuasion,  and  knowing  that  in  human 
nature  at  large  all  principle  and  all  discordance  is 
apt  to  come  to  a  signal  defeat  when  Love  takes 
the  field.  But  now  there  seemed  to  be  no  question 
of  wooing ;  Love  was  not  on  hand,  where  his  power 
was  wanted ;  the  friends  were  all  scattered  one  from 
another;  Lois  going  to  the  drudgery  of  teaching 
rough  boys  and  girls,  she  herself  to  the  seclusion 
of  some  quiet  seaside  retreat,  and  Mr.  Dillwyn — 
to  hunt  bears  ? — in  Canada. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

LUXURY. 

SO  they  were  all  scattered.  But  the  moving  and 
communicating  wires  of  human  society  seem 
as  often  as  any  way  to  run  underground ;  quite  out 
of  sight,  at  least;  then  specially  strong,  when  to 
an  outsider  they  appear  to  be  broken  and  parted 
for  ever. 

Into  the  history  of  the  summer  it  is  impossible 
to  go  minutely.  What  Mr.  Dillwyn  did  in  Can 
ada,  and  how  Lois  fought  with  ignorance  and 
rudeness  and  prejudice  in  her  new  situation,  Mrs. 
Barclay  learned  but  very  imperfectly  from  the  let 
ters  she  received ;  so  imperfectly,  that  she  felt  she 
knew  nothing.  Mr.  Dillwyn  never  mentioned  Miss 
Lothrop.  Could  it  be,  that  he  had  prematurely 
brought  things  to  a  decision,  and  so  got  them  de 
cided  wrong?  But  in  that  case  Mrs.  Barclay  felt 
sure  some  sign  would  have  escaped  Lois;  and  she 
gave  none. 

The  summer  passed  and  two  thirds  of  the  autumn. 

One  evening  in  the  end  of  October,  Mrs.  Wishart 
was  sitting  alone  in  her  back  drawing  room.  She 
(532) 


LUXURY.  533 

was  suffering  from  a  cold,  and  cuddling  herself 
over  the  fire.  Her  major  domo  brought  her  Mr. 
Dillwyn's  name  and  request  for  admission,  which 
was  joyfully  granted.  Mrs.  Wishart  was  denied  to 
ordinary  visiters;  and  Philip's  arrival  was  like  a 
benediction. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  summer  ?  "  she  asked 
him,  when  they  had  talked  awhile  of  some  things 
nearer  home. 

"  In  the  backwoods  of  Canada." 

"  The  backwoods  of  Canada ! — " 

"  I  assure  you,  it  is  a  very  enjoyable  region." 

"  What  could  you  find  to  do  there  ?  " 

"  More  than  enough.  I  spent  my  time  between 
hunting — fishing — and  studying." 

"Studying  what,  pray?  Not  backwoods  farm 
ing,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Well  no,  not  exactly.  Backwoods  farming  is 
not  precisely  in  my  line." 

"What  is  in  your  line,  that  you  could  study 
there?" 

"It  is  not  a  bad  place  to  study  anything ; — if  you 
except  perhaps  art,  and  antiquity." 

"  I  "did  not  know  you  studied  anything  but  art." 

"  It  is  hardly  a  sufficient  object  to  fill  a  man's  life 
worthily ;  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  What  would  fill  it  worthily  ?  "  the  lady  asked, 
with  a  kind  of  dreary  abstractedness.  And  if 
Philip  had  surprised  her  a  moment  before,  he  was 
surprised  in  his  turn.  As  he  did  not  answer  im 
mediately,  Mrs.  Wishart  went  on. 


534  NOBODY. 

"A  man's  life,  or  a  woman's  life?  What  would 
fill  it  worthily  ?  Do  you  know  ?  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  that  we  are  all  living  for  nothing." 

"  1  am  ready  to  confess,  that  has  been  the  case 
with  me, — to  my  shame  be  it  said." 

"  I  mean,  that  there  is  nothing  really  worth  liv 
ing  for." 

"  That  cannot  be  true,  however." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  say  so  at  the  times  when  I 
am  unable  to  enjoy  anything  in  my  life.  And 
yet,  if  you  stop  to  think,  what  does  anybody's  life 
amount  to?  Nobody's  missed,  after  he  is  gone;  or 
only  for  a  minute ;  and  for  himself —  There  is  not  a 
year  of  my  life  that  I  can  remember,  that  I  would 
be  willing  to  live  over  again." 

"  Apparently,  then,  to  enjoy  is  not  the  chief  end 
of  existence.  I  mean,  of  this  existence." 

"  What  do  we  know  of  any  other  ?  And  if  we  do 
not  enjoy  ourselves,  pray  what  in  the  world  should 
we  live  for  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  people  that  I  thought  enjoyed 
themselves,"  Philip  said  slowly. 

"Have  you?  Who  were  they?  I  do  not  know 
them." 

"  You  know  some  of  them.  Do  you  recollect  a 
friend  of  mine,  for  whom  you  negotiated  lodgings 
at  a  far-off  country  village  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  remember.    They  took  her,  didn't  they?" 

"  They  took  her.  And  I  had  the  pleasure  once 
or  twice  of  visiting  her  there." 

"Did  she  like  it?" 


LUXURY.  535 

"Very  much.  She  could  not  help  liking  it.  And 
I  thought  those  people  seemed  to  enjoy  life.  Not 
relatively,  but  positively." 

"The  Lothrops !  "  cried  Mrs.  Wishart.  "I  can 
not  conceive  it.  Why  they  are  very  poor." 

"That  made  no  hindrance,  in  their  case." 

"Poor  people,  I  am  afraid  they  have  not  been 
enjoying  themselves  this  year." 

"  I  heard  of  Mrs.  Armadale's  death." 

"  Yes.  0  she  was  old ;  she  could  not  be  expect 
ed  to  live  long.  But  they  are  all  broken  up." 

"  How  am  I  to  understand  that  ?  " 

"Well  you  know  they  have  very  little  to 
live  upon.  I  suppose  it  was  for  that  reason, 
Lois  went  off  to  a  distance  from  home  to  teach  a 
district  school.  You  know, — or  do  you  know  ? — 
what  country  schools  are,  in  some  places;  this  was 
one  of  the  places.  Pretty  rough ;  and  hard  living. 
And  then,  a  railroad  was  opened  in  the  neighbour 
hood — the  place  became  sickly — a  fever  broke  out 
among  Lois's  scholars  and  the  families  they,  came 
from;  and  Lois  spent  her  vacation  in  nursing. 
Then  got  sick  herself  with  the  fever,  and  is  only 
just  now  getting  well." 

"I  heard  something  of  this  before  from  Mrs. 
Barclay." 

"Then  Madge  went  to  take  care  of  Lois,  and 
they  were  both  there.  That  is  weeks  and  weeks 
ago, — months,  I  should  think." 

"  But  the  sick  one  is  well  again  ?  " 

44  She  is  better.     But  one  does  not  get  up  from 


536  NOBODY. 

those  fevers  so  soon.  One's  strength  is  gone. 
I  have  sent  for  them  to  come  and  make  me  a 
visit  and  recruit." 

"They  are  coming,  I  hope?" 

"I  expect  them  here  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  had  nearly  been  betrayed  into  an 
exclamation.  He  remembered  himself  in  time,  and 
replied  with  proper  self-possession  that  he  was 
very  glad  to  hear  it. 

"Yes,  I  told  them  to  come  here  and  rest  up. 
They  must  want  it,  poor  girls,  both  of  them." 

"Then  they  are  coming  to-morrow ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  By  what  train  ?  " 

"  I  believe,  it  is  the  New  Haven  train  that  gets 
in  about  five  o'clock.  Or  six.  I  do  not  know 
exactly." 

"  I  know.  Now,  Mrs.  Wishart,  you  are  not  well 
yourself,  and  must  not  go  out.  I  will  meet  the 
train  and  bring  them  safe  to  you." 

"  You  ?  0  that's  delightful.  I  have  been  puz 
zling  my  brain  to  know  how  I  should  manage;  for 
I  am  not  fit  to  go  out  yet,  and  servants  are  so  un 
satisfactory.  Will  you  really?  That's  good  of 
you!" 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  the  least  I  can  do.  The 
family  received  me  most  kindly  on  more  than  one 
occasion;  and  I  would  gladly  do  them  a  greater 
service  than  this." 

At  two  o'clock  next  day  the  waiting  room  of  the 
New  Haven  station  held,  among  others,  two  very 


LUXURY.  537 

handsome  young  girls;  who  kept  close  together 
waiting  for  their  summons  to  the  train.  One  of 
them  was  very  pale  and  thin  and  feeble-looking, 
and  indeed  sat  so  that  she  leaned  part  of  her 
weight  upon  her  sister.  Madge  was  pale  too,  and 
looked  somewhat  anxious.  Both  pairs  of  eyes 
watched  languidly  the  moving,  various  groups  of 
travellers  clustered  about  in  the  room. 

"  Madge,  it's  like  a  dream  !  "  murmured  the  one 
girl  to  the  other. 

"What?  If  you  mean  this  crowd,  my  dreams 
have  more  order  in  them." 

"  I  mean,  being  away  from  Esterbrooke,  and  off 
a  sick  bed,  and  moving,  and  especially  going  to — 
where  we  are  going.  It's  a  dream  !  " 

"Why?" 

"Too  good  to  be  true.  I  had  thought,  do 
you  know,  I  never  should  make  a  visit  there 
again." 

"  Why  not,  Lois  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  best  not.  But  now  the 
way  seems  clear,  and  I  can  take  the  fun  of  it.  It 
is  clearly  right  to  go."  » 

"  Of  course  !  It  is  always  right  to  go  wherever 
you  are  asked." 

"  Oh  no,  Madge  !  " 

"Well, — wherever  the  invitation  is  honest,  I 
mean." 

"  Oh  that  isn't  enough." 

"  What  else  ?  supposing  you  have  the  means  to 
go.  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have  that  condition  in 


538  NOBODY. 

the  present  instance.  But  if  you  have, — what  else 
is  to  be  waited  for  ?  " 

"  Duty — "  Lois  wrhispered. 

"  0  bother  duty !  Here  have  you  gone  and  al 
most  killed  yourself  for  duty." 

"  Well, — supposing  one  does  kill  oneself? — one 
must  do  what  is  duty." 

"That  isn't  duty." 

"0  it  may  be." 

"  Not  to  kill  yourself.  You  have  almost  killed 
yourself,  Lois." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Yes,  you  could.  You  make  duty  a  kind  of 
iron  thing." 

"Not  iron,"  said  Lois;  she  spoke  slowly  and 
faintly,  but  now  she  smiled.  "  It  is  golden  !  " 

"That  don't  help.  Chains  of  gold  may  be  as 
hard  to  break  as  chains  of  iron." 

"Who  wants  them  broken?"  said  Lois  in  the 
same  slow,  contented  way.  "  Duty  ?  Why  Madge, 
it's  the  King's  orders ! " 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  were  ordered  to  go 
to  that  place,  and  then  to  nurse  those  children 
through  the  fever  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  I  should  be  terribly  afraid  of  duty,  if  I  thought 
it  came  in  such  shapes.  There's  the  train  ! — Now 
if  you  can  get  down  stairs — " 

That  was  accomplished,  though  with  tottering 
steps,  and  Lois  was  safely  seated  in  one  of  the 
cars,  and  her  head  pillowed  upon  the  back  of  the 


LUXURY.  539 

seat.  There  was  no  more  talking  then  for  some 
time.  Only  when  Haarlem  bridge  was  past  and 
New  York  close  at  hand,  Lois  spoke. 

"Madge,  suppose  Mrs.  Wishart  should  not  be 
4here  to  meet  us?  You  must  think  what  you 
would  do." 

"Why,  the  train  don't  go  any  further, •  does 
it?" 

"No! — but  it  goes  back.  I  mean,  it  will  not 
stand  still  for  you.  It  moves  away  out  of  the 
station  house  as  soon  as  it  is  empty." 

"There  will  be  carriages  waiting,  I  suppose. 
But  I  am  sure  I  hope  she  will  meet  us.  I  wrote  in 
plenty  of  time.  Don't  worry,  dear!  we'll  manage." 

"  I  am  not  worrying,"  said  Lois.  "  I  am  a  great 
deal  too  happy  to  worry." 

However,  that  was  not  Madge's  case,  and  she 
felt  very  fidgety.  With  Lois  so  feeble,  and  in  a 
place  so  unknown  to  her,  and  with  baggage  checks 
to  dispose  of,  and  so  little  time  to  do  anything, 
and  no  doubt  a  crowd  of  doubtful  characters  loung 
ing  about,  as  she  had  always  heard  they  did  in 
New  York;  Madge  did  wish  very  anxiously  for  a 
pilot  and  a  protector.  As  the  train  slowly  moved 
into  the  Grand  Central,  she  eagerly  looked  to  see 
some  friend  appear.  But  none  appeared. 

"  We  must  go  out,  Madge,"  said  Lois.  "  Maybe 
we  shall  find  Mrs.  Wishart — I  dare  say  we  shall — 
she  could  not  come  into  the  cars — " 

The  two  made  their  way  accordingly,  slowly,  at 
the  end  of  the  procession  filing  out  of  the  car, 


540  NOBODY. 

till  Madge  got  out  upon  the  platform.  There  she 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy. 

"  0  Lois !— there's  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  " 

"But  we  are  looking  for  Mrs.  Wishart,"  said 
Lois.  » 

The  next  thing  she  knew,  however,  somebody 
was  carefully  helping  her  down  to  the  landing; 
and  then,  her  hand  was  on  a  stronger  arm  than 
that  of  Mrs.  Wishart,  and  she  was  slowly  following 
the  stream  of  people  to  the  front  of  the  station 
house.  Lois  was  too  exhausted  by  this  time  to 
ask  any  questions;  suffered  herself  to  be  put  in  a 
carriage  passively,  where  Madge  took  her  place 
also,  while  Mr.  Dillwyn  went  to  give  the  checks 
of  their  baggage  in  charge  to  an  expressman. 
Lois  then  broke  out  again  with, 

"  0  Madge,  it's  like  a  dream !  " 

" Isn't  it?"  said  Madge.  "I  have  been  in  a 
regular  fidget  for  two  hours  past,  for  fear  Mrs. 
Wishart  would  not  be  here." 

"  I  didn't  fidget,"  said  Lois,  "  but  I  did  not  know 
how  I  was  going  to  get  from  the  cars  to  the 
carriage.  I  feel  in  a  kind  of  exhausted  elysium  !  " 

"It's  convenient  to  have  a  man  belonging  to 
one,"  said  Madge. 

"  Hush,  pray !  "  said  Lois  closing  her  eyes.  And 
she  hardly  opened  them  again  until  the  carriage 
arrived  at  Mrs.  Wishart's;  which  was  something 
of  a  drive.  Madge  and  Mr.  Dillwyn  kept  up 
a  lively  conversation,  about  the  journey  and  Lois's 
condition,  and  her  summer;  and  how  he  hnppened 


LUXURY.  541 

to  be  at  the  Grand  Central.  He  went  to  meet 
some  friends,  he  said  coolly,  whom  he  expected 
to  see  by  that  train. 

"Then  we  must  have  been  in  your  way,"  ex 
claimed  Madge  regretfully. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said. 

"  But  we  hindered  you  from  taking  care  of  your 
friends  ?  " 

" No,"  he  said  indifferently ;  "by  no  means.  They 
are  taken  care  of." 

And  both  Madge  and  Lois  were  too  simple  to 
know  what  he  meant. 

At  Mrs.  Wishart's,  Lois  was  again  helped  care 
fully  out  and  carefully  in,  and  half  carried  up  stairs 
to  her  own  room,  whither  it  was  decided  she  had 
better  go  at  once.  And  there,  after  being  furnished 
with  a  bowl  of  broth,  she  was  left,  while  the  others 
went  down  to  tea.  So  Madge  found  her  an  hour 
afterwards,  sunk  in  the  depths  of  a  great,  soft  easy 
chair,  gazing  at  the  fanciful  flames  of  a  kennel  coal 
fire. 

"0  Madge,  it's  a  dream!"  Lois  said  again  lan 
guidly,  though  with  plenty  of  expression.  "  I  can't 
believe  in  the  change  from  Esterbrooke  here." 

"  It's  a  change  from  Shampuashuh,"  Madge  re 
turned.  "  Lois,  I  didn't  know  things  could  be  so 
pretty.  And  we  have  ha.d  the  most  delightful  tea, 
and  something — cakes — Mrs.  Wishart  calls  wigs, 
the  best  things  you  ever  saw  in  your  life;  but 
Mr.  Dillwyn  wouldn't  let  us  send  some  up  to  you." 

"Mr.  Dillwyn!"— 


542  NOBODY. 

"  Yes,  he  said  they  were  not  good  for  you.  He 
has  been  just  as  pleasant  as  he  could  be.  I  never 
saw  anybody  so  pleasant.  I  like  Mr.  Dillwyn  very 
much." 

"  Don't ! — "  said  Lois  languidly. 

"Why?" 

"  You  had  better  not." 

"But  why  not?  You  are  ungrateful,  it  seems 
to  me,  if  you  don't  like  him." 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Lois  slowly;  "but  he  belongs 
to  a  different  world  from  ours.  The  worlds  can't 
come  together;  so  it  is  best  not  to  like  him  too 
much." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  a  different  world  ?  " 

"0  he's  different,  Madge!  All  his  thoughts  and 
ways  and  associations  are  unlike  ours — a  great  way 
off  from  ours;  and  must  be.  It  is  best  as  I  said. 
I  guess  it  is  best  not  to  like  anybody  too  much." 

With  which  oracular  and  superhu manly  wise  ut 
terance,  Lois  closed  her  eyes  softly  again.  Madge, 
provoked,  was  about  to  carry  on  the  discussion, 
when  noticing  how  pale  the  cheek  was  which  lay 
against  the  crimson  chair  cushion,  and  how  very 
delicate  the  lines  of  the  face,  she  thought  better 
of  it  and  was  silent.  A  while  later,  however,  when 
she  had  brought  Lois  a  cup  of  gruel  and  biscuit, 
she  broke  out  on  a  new  theme. 

"What  a  thing  it  is,  that  some  people  should 
have  so  much  silver  and  other  people  so  little !  " 

"What  silver  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  Why  Mrs.  Wishart's,  to  be  sure.     Who's  else  ? 


LUXURY.  543 

I  never  saw  anything  like  it,  out  of  Aladdin's  cave. 
Great  urns,  and  salvers,  and  cream  jugs,  and  sugar 
bowls,  and  cake  baskets,  and  pitchers,  and  salt 
cellars.  The  salt-cellars  were  lined  with  something 
yellow,  or  washed,  to  hinder  the  staining,  I  suppose." 

»  Gold—"  said  Lois. 

"Gold?" 

"Yes.     Plated  with  gold." 

"  Well  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  sideboard 
down  stairs ;  the  sideboard  and  the  tea-table.  It 
is  funny,  Lois;  as  I  said;  why  some  should  have 
so  much  and  others  so  little." 

"  We,  you  mean  ?  What  should  we  do  with  a 
load  of  silver  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  it,  and  then  you'd  see !  .  You  should 
have  a  silk  dress,  to  begin  with,  and  so  should  I." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Lois,  letting  her  eyelids  fall 
again  with  an  expression  of  supreme  content,  hav 
ing  finished  her  gruel.  "There  are  compensations, 
Madge." 

"Compensations!  What  compensations?  We 
,  are  hardly  respectably  dressed,  you  and  I,  for 
this  place." 

"  Never  mind !  "  said  Lois  again.  "  If  you  had 
been  sick  as  I  was,  and  in  that  place,  and  among 
those  people,  you  would  know  something." — 

"What  should  I  know?" 

"How  delightful  this  chair  is; — and  how  good 
that  gruel,  out  of  a  china  cup; — and  how  delicious 
all  this  luxury.  Mrs.  Wishart  isn't  as  rich  as  I 
am  to-night." 


544  NOBODY. 

"  The  difference  is,  she  can  keep  it,  and  you 
cannot,  you  poor  child !  " 

"  0  yes,  I  can  keep  it,"  said  Lois,  in  the  slow, 
happy  accent  with  which  she  said  everything  to 
night; — "I  can  keep  the  remembrance  of  it,  and 
the  good  of  it.  When  I  get  back  to  my  work,  I 
shall  not  want  it." 

"  Your  work !  "  said  Madge. 

"Yes." 

"  Esterbrooke ! " 

"Yes,  if  they  want  me." 

"  You  are  never  going  back  to  that  place !  "  ex 
claimed  Madge  energetically.  "  Never  •  not  with 
my  good  leave.  Bury  yourself  in  that  wild  coun 
try,  and  kill  yourself  with  hard  work!  Not  if  I 
know  it." 

"  If  that  is  the  work  given  me — "  said  Lois,  in 
the  same  calm  voice.  "They  want  somebody  there, 
badly;  and  I  have  made  a  beginning." 

"A  nice  beginning!  —  almost  killed  yourself. 
Now,  Lois,  don't  think  about  anything !  Do  you 
know,  Mrs.  Wishart  says  you  are  the  handsomest 
girl  she  ever  saw  ?  " 

"  That's  a  mistake.  I  know  several  much  hand 
somer." 

"  She  tried  to  make  Mr.  Dillwyn  say  so  too ;  and 
he  wouldn't." 

"Naturally." 

"  It  was  funny  to  hear  them ;  she  tried  to  drive 
him  up  to  the  point,  and  he  wouldn't  be  driven;  he 
said  one  clever  thing  after  another,  but  always 


LUXURY.  545 

managed  to  give  her  no  answer;  till  at  last  she 
pinned  him  with  a  point  blank  question." 

"  What  did  he  do  then  ?  " 

"  Said  what  you  said ;  that  he  had  seen  women 
who  would  be  called  handsomer." 

The  conversation  dropped  here,  for  Lois  made  no 
reply,  and  Madge  recollected  she  had  talked  enough. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

ATTENTIONS. 

IT  was  days  before  Lois  went  down  stairs.  She 
seemed  indeed  to  be  in  no  hurry.  Her  room  was 
luxuriously  comfortable;  Madge  tended  her  there, 
and  Mrs.  Wishart  visited  her;  and  Lois  sat  in  her 
great  easy  chair,  and  rested,  and  devoured  the  del 
icate  meals  that  were  brought  her;  and  the  colour 
began  gently  to  come  back  to  her  face,  in  the  im 
perceptible  fashion  in  which  a  white  Van  Thol  tu 
lip  takes  on  its  hues  of  crimson.  She  began  to  read 
a  little;  but  she  did  not  care  to  go  down  stairs. 
Madge  told  her  everything  that  went  on ;  who  came, 
and  what  was  said  by  one  and  another.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn's  name  was  of  very  frequent  occurrence. 

"  He's  a  real  nice  man ! "  said  Madge  enthusi 
astically. 

"  Madge,  Madge,  Madge! — you  mustn't  speak  so," 
said  Lois.     "You  must  not  say  'real  nice'." 

"  I   don't,   down   stairs,"   said  Madge   laughing. 
"  It  was  only  to  you.     It  is  more  expressive,  Lois, 
sometimes,  to  speak  wrong  than  to  speak  right." 
'546) 


ATTENTIONS.  547 

"Do  not  speak  so  expressively,  then." 

"But  I  must,  when  I  am  speaking  of  Mr. 
Dillwyn.  I  never  saw  anybody  so  nice.  He  is 
teaching  me  to  play  chess,  Lois,  and  it  is  such 
fun."  . 

"  It  seems  to  me  he  comes  here  very  often." 

"  0  he  does;  he  is  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Wishart's 
and  she  is  as  glad  to  see  him  as  I  am." 

"  Don't  be  too  glad,  Madge.  I  do  not  like  to  hear 
you  speak  so." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  did  not  want  to 
accept  Mrs.  Barclay's  invitation  last  winter,  that  I 
knew  he  would  be  visiting  her  constantly.  I  did 
not  expect  to  see  him  here  much."  Lois  looked 
grave. 

"What  harm  in  seeing  him,  Lois?  why  shouldn't 
one  have  the  pleasure?  For  it  is  a  pleasure;  his 
talk  is  so  bright,  and  his  manner  is  so  very  kind 
and  graceful ;  and  lie  is  so  kind.  He  is  going  to 
take  me  to  drive  again." 

"You  go  to  drive  with  Mrs.  Wishart.  Isn't  that 
enough  ? " 

"  It  isn't  a  quarter  so  pleasant,"  Madge  said  laugh 
ing  again.  "Mr.  Dillwyn  talks,  something  one 
likes  to  hear  talked.  Mrs.  Wishart  tells  me  about 
old  families,  and  where  they  used  to  live,  and  where 
they  live  now ;  what  do  I  care  about  old  New  York 
families !  And  Mr.  Dillwyn  lets  me  talk.  I  never 
have  anything  whatever  to  say  to  Mrs.  Wishart ;  she 
does  it  all." 


548  NOBODY. 

"  I  would  rather  have  you  go  driving  with  her, 
though." 

"Why,  Lois?  That's  ridiculous.  I  like  to  go 
with  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"Don't  like  it  too  well." 

"  How  can  I  like  it  too  well  ?  " 

"  So  much  that  you  would  miss  it,  when  you  do 
not  have  it  any  longer." 

"  Miss  it !  "  said  Madge  half  angrily.  "  I  might 
miss  it,  as  I  might  miss  any  pleasant  thing;  but  I 
could  stand  that.  I'm  not  a  chicken  just  out  of  the 
egg.  I  have  missed  things  before  now,  and  it 
hasn't  killed  me." 

"Don't  think  I  am  foolish,  Madge.  It  isn't  a 
question  of  how  much  you  can  stand.  But  the  men 
like — like  this  one, — are  so  pleasant  with  their 
graceful,  smooth  ways,  that  country  girls  like  you 
and  me  might  easily  be  drawn  on,  without  knowing 
it,  further  than  they  want  to  go." 

"  He  does  not  want  to  draw  anybody  on ! "  said 
Madge  indignantly. 

"  That's  the  very  thing.  You  might  think — or  I 
might  think — that  pleasant  manner  means  some 
thing;  and  it  don't  mean  anything." 

"  I  don't  want  it  to  '  mean  anything,'  as  you  say; 
but  what  has  our  being  country  girls  to  do  with 
it?" 

"We  are  not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  society 
and  so  it  makes,  I  suppose,  more  impression.  And 
what  might  mean  something  to  others,  would  not 
to  us.  From  such  men,  I  mean." 


ATTENTIONS.  549 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'such  men'?"  asked 
Madge,  who  was  getting  rather  excited. 

;'Rich  —  fashionable  —  belonging  to  the  great 
world,  and  having  the  ways  of  it.  You  know  what 
Mr.  DiUwyn  is  like.  It  is  not  what  we  have  in 
Shainpuashuh." 

"But  Lois! — what  are  you  talking  about?  I 
don't  care  a  red  cent  for  all  this,  but  I  want  to  un 
derstand.  You  said  such  a  manner  would  mean 
nothing  to  us." 

"Yes." 

"  Why  not  to  us,  as  well  as  anybody  else?" 

"  Because  we  are  nobodies,  Madge." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  the  other  hotly. 

"  Just  that.  It  is  quite  true.  You  are  nobody, 
and  I  am  nobody.  You  see,  if  we  were  somebody, 
it  would  be  different. " 

"  If  you  think — I'll  tell  you  what,  Lois !  I  think 
you  are  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  the  best  man  that  lives 
and  breathes." 

"  I  think  so  myself,"  Lois  returned  quietly. 

"And  I  am." 

"  I  think  you  are,  Madge.  But  that  makes  no 
difference.  My  dear,  we  are  nobody." 

"  How  ?  " — impatiently.  "  Isn't  our  family  as  re 
spectable  as  anybody's?  Haven't  we  had  gover 
nors  and  governors,  of.  Massachusetts  and  Con 
necticut  both ;  and  judges,  and  ministers,  ever  so 
many,  among  our  ancestors?  And  didn't  a  half 
dozen  of  'em,  or  more,  come  over  in  the  May 
flower?" 


550  NOBODY. 

"  Yes,  Madge ;  all  true ;  and  I  am  as  glad  of  it  as 
you  are." 

"  Then  you  talk  nonsense  !  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Lois,  sighing  a  little.  "I 
have  seen  a  little  more  of  the  world  than  you 
have,  you  know,  dear  Madge ;  not  very  much,  but 
a  little  more  than  you;  and  I  know  what  I  am 
talking  about.  We  are  unknown,  we  are  not  rich, 
we  have  none  of  what  they  call  '  connections.'  So 
you  see  I  do  not  want  you  to  like  too  much  a  per 
son  who,  beyond  civility,  and  kindness  perhaps, 
would  never  think  of  liking  you." 

"  I  don't  want  him  to,  that's  one  thing,"  said 
Madge.  "  But  if  all  that  is  true,  he  is  meaner  than 
I  think  him ;  that's  what  I've  got  to  say.  And  it 
is  a  mean  state  of  society  where  all  that  can  be 
true." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  human  nature,"  said  Lois. 

"  It's  awfully  mean  human  nature !  " 

"  I  guess  there  is  not  much  true  nobleness  but 
where  the  religion  of  Christ  comes  in.  If  you  have 
got  that,  Madge,  be  content  and  thankful." 

"  But  nobody  likes  to  be  unjustly  depreciated." 

''Isn't  that  pride?" 

"One  must  have  some  pride.  I  can't  make  re 
ligion  everything^  Lois.  I  was  a  woman  before  I 
was  a  Christian." 

"  If  you  want  to  be  a  happy  woman,  you  will  let 
religion  be  everything." 

"But  Lois! — wouldn't  you  like  to  be  rich,  and 
have  pretty  things  about  you  ?  " 


ATTENTIONS.  551 

"Don't  ask  me,"  said  Lois  smiling.  "I  am  a  wo 
man  too,  and  dearly  fond  of  pretty  things.  But 
Madge,  there  is  something  else  I  love  better,"  she 
added  with  a  sudden  sweet  gravity;  "and  that  is, 
the  will  of  my  God.  I  would  rather  have  what  he 
chooses  to  give  me.  Really  and  truly;  I  would 
rather  have  that." 

The  conversation  therewith  was  at  an  end.  In 
the  evening  of  that  same  day  Lois  left  her  seclusion 
and  came  down  stairs  for  the  first  time.  She  was 
languid  enough  yet  to  be  obliged  to  move  slowly, 
and  her  cheeks  had  not  got  back  their  full  colour 
and  were  thinner  than  they  used  to  be ;  otherwise 
she  looked  well,  and  Mrs.  Wishart  contemplated 
her  with  great  satisfaction.  Somewhat  to  Lois's 
vexation,  or  she  thought  so,  they  found  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyii  down  stairs  also.  Lois  had  the  invalid's  place 
of  honour,  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  with  a  little  table 
drawn  up  for  her  separate  tea;  and  Madge  and 
Mr.  Dillwyn  made  toast  for  her  at  the  fire.  The 
fire  gave  its  warm  shine,  the  lamps  glittered  with 
a  more  brilliant  illumination ;  ruddy  hues  of  tapes 
try  and  white  gleams  from  silver  and  glass  filled 
the  room,  with  lights  and  shadows  everywhere, 
that  contented  the  eye  and  the  imagination  too, 
with  suggestions  of  luxury  and  plenty  and  shel 
tered  comfort.  Lois  felt  the  shelter  and  the  com 
fort  and  the  pleasure,  with  that  enhanced  intensity 
which  belongs  to  one's  sensations  in  a  state  of  con 
valescence,  and  in  her  case  was  heightened  by  pre 
vious  experiences.  Nestled  among  cushions  in  her 


552  NOBODY. 

corner,  she  watched  everything  and  took  the  effect 
of  every  detail ;  tasted  every  flavour  of  the  situa 
tion  ;  but  all  with  a  thoughtful,  wordless  gravity ; 
she  hardly  spoke  at  all. 

After  tea  Mr.  Dillwyn  and  Madge  sat  down  to 
the  chess  board.  And  then  Lois's  attention  fas 
tened  upon  them.  Madge  had  drawn  the  little 
table  that  held  the  chessmen  into  very  close  prox 
imity  to  the  sofa,  so  that  she  was  just  at  Lois's 
hand;  but  then  her  whole  mind  was  bent  upon  the 
game,  and  Lois  could  study  her  as  she  pleased. 
She  did  study  Madge.  She  admired  her  sister's 
great  beauty;  the  glossy  black  hair,  the  delicate 
skin,  the  excellent  features,  the  pretty  figure. 
Madge  was  very  handsome,  there  was  no  doubt; 
Mr.  Dillwyn  would  not  have  far  to  look,  Lois 
thought,  to  find  one  handsomer  than  herself  was. 
There  was  a  frank,  fine  expression  of  face,  too;  and 
manners  thoroughly  good.  They  lacked  some  of 
the  quietness  of  long  usage,  Lois  thought ;  a  quick 
look  or  movement  now  and  then,  or  her  eager 
eyes,  or  an  abrupt  tone  of  voice,  did  in  some  meas 
ure  betray  the  country  girl,  to  whom  everything 
was  novel  and  interesting;  and  distinguished  her 
from  the  half  blase,  wholly  indifferent  air  of  other 
people.  She  will  learn  that  quietness  soon  enough, 
thought  Lois;  and  then,  nothing  could  be  left  to  de 
sire  in  Madge.  The  quietness  had  always  been  a 
characteristic  of  Lois  herself;  partly  difference  of 
temperament,  partly  the  sweeter  poise  of  Lois's 
mind,  had  made  this  difference  between  the  sisters; 


ATTENTIONS.  553 

and  now  of  course  Lois  had  had  more  experience 
of  people  and  the  world.  But  it  was  not  in  her 
the  result  of  experience,  this  fair,  unshaken  bal 
ance  of  mind  and  manner  which  was  always  a 
charm  in  her.  However,  this  by  the  way;  the  girl 
herself  was  drawing  no  comparisons,  except  so  far 
as  to  judge  her  sister  handsomer  than  herself. 

From  Madge  her  eye  strayed  to  Mr.  Dillwyn,  and 
studied  him.  She  was  lying  back  a  little  in  shad 
ow,  and  could  do  it  safely.  He  was  teaching  Madge 
the  game;  and  Lois  could  not  but  acknowledge  and 
admire  in  him  the  finished  manner  she  missed  in 
her  sister.  Yes,  she  could  not  help  admiring  it. 
The  gentle,  graceful,  easy  way,  in  which  he  directed 
her,  gave  reproofs  and  suggestions  about  the  game, 
and  at  the  same  time  kept  up  a  running  conver 
sation  with  Mrs.  Wishart;  letting  not  one  thing 
interfere  with  another,  nor  failing  for  a  moment  to 
attend  to  both  ladies.  There  was  a  quiet  perfection 
about  the  whole  home  picture;  it  remained  in  Lois's 
memory  for  ever.  Mrs.  Wishart  sat  on  an  opposite 
sofa  knitting;  not  a  long  blue  stocking,  like  her 
dear  grandmother,  but  a  web  of  wonderful  hues, 
thick  and  soft,  and  various  as  the  feathers  on  a 
peacock's  neck.  It  harmonized  with  all  the  rest 
of  the  room,  where  warmth  and  colour  and  a  cer 
tain  fulness  of  detail  gave"  the  impression  of  long- 
established  easy  living.  The  contrast  was  very 
strong  with  Lois's  own  life  surroundings;  she 
compared  and  contrasted,  and  was  not  quite  sure 
how  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  might  be  good 


554  '  NOBODY. 

for  her.  However,  for  the  present  here  she  was, 
and  she  enjoyed  it.  Then  she  queried  if  Mr. 
Dillwyn  were  enjoying  it.  She  noticed  the  hand 
which  he  had  run  through  the  locks  of  his  hair, 
resting  his  head  on  the  hand.  It  was  well  formed, 
well  kept;  in  that  nothing  remarkable;  but  there 
was  a  certain  character  of  energy  in  the  fingers 
which  did  not  look  like  the  hand  of  a  lazy  man. 
How  could  he  spend  his  life  so  in  doing  nothing  ? 
She  did  not  fancy  that  he  cared  much  about  the 
game,  or  much  about  the  talk;  what  was  he  there 
for,  so  often  ?  Did  he,  possibly,  care  about  Madge  ? 
Lois's  thoughts  came  back  to  the  conversation. 

"Mrs.  Wishart,  what  is  to  be  done  with  the 
poor  of  our  city  ?  "  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  saying. 

"  I  don't  know !  I  wish  something  could  be 
done  with  them,  to  keep  them  from  coming  to 
the  house.  My  cook  turns  away  a  dozen  a  day, 
some  days." 

"  Those  are  not  the  poor  I  mean." 

"  They  are  poor  enough." 

"  They  are  to  a  targe  extent  pretenders.  I  mean 
the  masses  of  solid  poverty  which  fill  certain  parts 
of  the  city — and  not  small  parts  either.  It  is  no 
pretence  there." 

"  I  thought  there  were  Societies  enough  to  look 
after  them.  I  know  I  pay  my  share  to  keep  up 
the  Societies.  What  are  they  doing  ?  " 

"Something,  I  suppose.  As  if  a  man  should 
carry  a  watering  pot  to  Vesuvius." 

"  What  in  the  world  has  turned  your  attention 


ATTENTIONS.  555 

that  way?  I  pay  my  subscriptions,  and  then  I 
discharge  the  matter  from  my  mind.  It  is  the 
business  of  the  Societies.  What  has  set  you  to 
thinking  about  it  ?  " 

"  Something  I  have  seen,  and  something  I  have 
heard." 

"  What  have  you  heard  ?  Are  you  studying 
political  economy?  I  did  not  know  you  studied 
anything  but  art-criticism." 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  poor  at  Shampu- 
ashuh,  Miss  Madge  ?  " 

"We  do  not  have  any  poor.  That  is,  hardly 
any.  There  is  nobody  in  the  poor  house.  A  few — 
perhaps  half  a  dozen — people,  cannot  quite  support 
themselves?  Check  to  your  queen,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  What  do  you  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  0,  take  care  of  them.  It's  very  simple.  They 
understand,  that  whenever  they  are  in  absolute 
need  of  it,  they  can  go  to  the  store  and  get  what 
they  want." 

"  At  whose  expense  ?  " 

"0  there  is  a  fund  there  for  them.  Some  of 
the  better-off  people  take  care  of  that." 

"  I  should  think  that  would  be  quite  too  simple," 
said  Mrs.  Wishart,  "  and  extremely  liable  to  abuse." 

"  It  is  never  abused,  though.  Some  of  the  peo 
ple,  those  poor  ones,  will  come  as  near  as  possible 
to  starving  before  they  will  apply  for  anything." 

Mrs.  Wishart  remarked  that  Shampuashuh  was 
altogether  unlike  all  other  places  she  ever  had 
heard  of. 


556  NOBODY. 

"Things  at  Shampuashuh  are  as  they  ought 
to  be,"  Mr.  Dillwyn  said. 

"  Now  Mr.  Dillwyn,"  cried  Madge,  "  I  will  for 
give  you  for  taking  my  queen,  if  you  will  answer 
a  question  for  me.  What  is  '  art-criticism '  ?" 

"  Why  Madge,  you  know ! "  said  Lois  from  her 
sofa  corner. 

"  I  do  not  admire  ignorance  so  much  as  to  pre 
tend  to  it,"  Madge  rejoined.  "  What  is  art-criticism, 
Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  " 

"What  is  art?" 

"  That  is  what  I  do  not  know ! "  said  Madge 
laughing.  "  I  understand  criticism.  It  is  the  art 
that  bothers  me.  I  only  know  that  it  is  something 
as  far  from  nature  as  possible." 

"  0  Madge,  Madge !  " — said  Lois  again ;  and  Mr. 
Dillwyn  laughed  a  little. 

"  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Madge.  Your  learning 
must  be  unlearnt.  Art  is  really  so  near  to  nature 
— Check ! — that  it  consists  in  giving  again  the 
facts  and  effects  of  nature  in  human  language." 

"  Human  language  ?    That  is,  letters  and  words  V  " 

"Those  are  the  symbols  of  one  language." 

"  What  other  is  there  ?  " 

"Music — painting — architecture 1  am  afraid, 

Miss  Madge,  that  is  check-mate  ?  " 

"  You  said  you  had  seen  and  heard  something, 
Mr.  Dillwyn,"  Mrs.  Wishart  now  began.  "  Do  tell 
us  what.  I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  anything; 
in  an  age." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  was  setting  the  chessmen  again. 


ATTENTIONS.  557 

"  What  I  saw,"  he  said,  "  was  a  silk  neck  tie — or 
scarf — such  as  we  wear.  What  I  heard,  was  the 
price  paid  for  making  it." 

"  Was  there  anything  remarkable  about  the 
scarf?" 

"Nothing  whatever;  except  the  aforesaid  price." 

"  What  was  the  price  paid  for  making  it  ?  " 

"Two  cents." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"A  friend  of  mine,  who  took  me  in  on  purpose 
that  I  might  see  and  hear,  what  I  have  reported." 

"  Two  cents,  did  you  say  ?     But  that's  no  price ! " 

"  So  I  thought." 

"How  many  could  a  woman  make  in  a  day, 
Madge,  of  those  silk  scarfs  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — I  suppose,  a  dozen." 

"  A  dozen,  I  was  told,  is  a  fair  day's  work,"  Mr. 
Dillwyn  said.  "  They  do  more,  but  it  is  by  work 
ing  on  into  the  night." 

"Good  patience!  Twenty-five  cents  for  a  hard 
day's  work !  "  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "  A  dollar  and 
a  half  a  week !  Where  is  bread  to  come  from,  to 
keep  them  alive  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Better  die  at  once,  I  should  say,"  echoed  Madge. 

"  Many  a  one  would  be  glad  of  that  alternative, 
I  doubt  not,"  Mr.  Dillwyn  went  on.  "  But  there 
is  perhaps  an  old  mother  to  be  taken  care  of,  or 
a  child  or  two  to  feed  and  bring  up." 

"Don't  talk  about  it!"  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "It 
makes  me  feel  blue." 

"  I  must  risk  that.     I  want  you  to  think  about 


558  NOBODY. 

it.  Where  is  help  to  come  from  ?  These  are  the 
people  I  was  thinking  of,  when  I  asked  you  what 
was  to  be  done  with  our  poor." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  ask  me.  /can  do  noth 
ing.  It  is  not  my  business." 

"Will  it  do  to  assume  that  as  quite  certain?" 

"  Why  yes.  What  can  I  do  with  a  set  of  master 
tailors ! " 

"You  can  cry  down  the  cheap  shops;  and  say 
why." 

"  Are  the  dear  shops  any  better  ?  " 

Mr.  Dillwyn  laughed.  "  Presumably !  But  talk 
ing, — even  your  talking, — will  not  do  all.  I  want 
you  to  think  about  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it,"  answered  the 
lady.  "  It's  beyond  me.  Poverty  is  people's  own 
fault.  Industrious  and  honest  people  can  always 
get  along." 

"If  sickness  does  not  set  in,  or  some  father  or 
husband  or  son  does  not  take  to  bad  ways." 

"How  can  I  help  all  that?"  asked  the  lady  some 
what  pettishly.  "  I  never  knew  you  were  in  the 
benevolent  and  reformatory  line  before,  Mr.  Dil 
lwyn.  What  has  put  all  this  in  your  head  ?  " 

"Those  scarfs,  for  one  thing.  Another  thing 
was  a  visit  I  had  lately  occasion  to  make.  It 
was  near  midday.  I  found  a  room  as  bare  as  a 
room  could  be,  of  all  that  we  call  comfort;  in 
the  floor  a  small  pine  table  set  with  three  plates, 
bread,  cold  herrings  and  cheese.  That  was  the  din 
ner  for  a  little  boy,  whom  I  found  setting  the  table, 


ATTENTIONS.  559 

and  his  father  and  mother.  The  parents  work  in 
a  factory  hard  by,  from  early  to  late;  they  have 
had  sickness  in  the  family  this  autumn,  and  are 
too  poor  to  afford  a  fire  to  eat  their  dinner  by,' 
or  to  make  it  warm;  so  the  other  child,  a  little 
girl,  has  been  sent  away  for  the  winter.  It  was 
frostily  cold  the  day  I  was  there.  The  boy  goes 
to  school  in  the  afternoon,  and  comes  home  in 
time  to  light  up  a  fire  for  his  father  and  mother 
to  warm  themselves  by  at  evening.  And  the  mo 
ther  has  all  her  housework  to  do  after  she  comes 
home." 

"That's  better  than  the  other  case,"  said  Mrs. 
Wishart. 

"  Bat  what  could  be  done,  Mr.  Dillwyn  ? "  said 
Lois  from  her  corner.  "  It  seems  as  if  something 
was  wrong.  But  how  could  it  be  mended." 

"  I  want  Mrs.  Wishart  to  consider  of  that." 

"I  can't  consider  it!"  said  the  lady.  "I  suppose 
it  is  intended  that  there  should  be  poor  people  al 
ways,  to  give  us  something  to  do." 

"Then  let  us  do  it." 

"How?" 

"I  am  not  certain;  but  I  make  a  suggestion. 
Suppose  all  the  ladies  of  this  city  devoted  their 
diamonds  to  this  purpose.  Then  any  number  of 
dwelling  houses  could  be  put  up;  separate,  but 
so  arranged  as  to  be  warmed  by  steam  from  a 
general  centre,  at  a  merely  nominal  cost  for  each 
one;  well  ventilated  and  comfortable;  so  putting 
an  end  to  the  enormity  of  tenement  houses.  Then 


560  NOBODY. 

a  commission  might  be  established  to  look  after 
the  rights  of  the  poor;  to  see  that  they  got  proper 
wages,  were  not  cheated,  and  that  all  should  have 
work  who  wanted  it.  So  much  might  be  done." 

"  With  no  end  of  money." 

44 1  proposed  to  take  the  diamonds  of  the  city, 
you  know." 

"And  why  just  the  diamonds?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Wishart.  "  Why  don't  you  speak  of  some  of  the 
indulgences  of  the  men  ?  Take  the  horses — or  the 
wines — " 

"I  am  speaking  to  a  lady,"  said  Dillwyn  smiling. 
"  When  I  have  a  man  to  apply  to,  I  will  make  my 
application  accordingly." 

"  Ask  him  for  his  tobacco,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart. 

"  Certainly  for  his  tobacco.  There  is  as  much 
money  spent  in  this  city  for  tobacco  as  there  is 
for  bread." 

Madge  exclaimed,  in  incredulous  astonishment; 
and  Lois  asked  if  the  diamonds  of  the  city  would 
amount  to  very  much  ? 

"  Yes,  Miss  Lois.  American  ladies  are  very  fond 
of  diamonds;  and  it  is  a  common  thing  for  one  of 
them  to  have  from  ten  thousand  to  twenty  thousand 
or  thirty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  them  as  part 
of  the  adornment  of  her  pretty  person  at  one  time." 

"Twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds 
on  at  once  ?  "  cried  Madge.  "  I  call  that  wicked  ! ' 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dillwyn  smiling. 

"  There's  no  wickedness  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart. 
"How  should  it  be  wicked?  You  put  on  a  flower's 


ATTENTIONS.  561 

and  another,  who  can  afford  it,  puts  on  a  diamond. 
What's  the  difference  ?  " 

"My  flower  does  not  cost  anybody  anything," 
said  Madge. 

"  What  do  my  diamonds  cost  anybody  ?  "  return 
ed  Mrs.  Wishart. 

Madge  was  silent,  though  not  oecause  she  had 
nothing  to  say;  and  at  this  precise  moment  the 
door  opened  and  visiters  were  ushered  in. 


CHAPTER    XLL 
CHESS. 

entered  upon  the  scene,  that  is,  a  little 
1  lady  of  very  gay  and  airy  manner;  whose 
airiness  however  was  thoroughly  well  bred.  She 
was  accompanied  by  a  tall  pleasant  looking  man, 
of  somewhat  dreamy  aspect;  and  they  were  named 
to  Lois  and  Madge  as  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Burrage.  To 
Mr.  Dillwyn  they  were  not  named;  and  the  greet 
ing  in  that  quarter  was  familiar;  the  lady  giving 
him  a  nod,  and  the  gentleman  an  easy  "Good 
evening."  The  lady's  attention  came  round  to 
him  again  as  soon  as  she  was  seated. 

"Why  Philip,  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you. 
What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  I  was  making  toast  a  little  while  ago." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  was  one  of  your  accom 
plishments." 

"  They  said  I  did  it  well.  0  I  have  picked  up  a 
good  deal  of  cooking  in  the  course  of  my  travels." 

"  In  what  part  of  the  world  did  you  learn  to 
make  toast?"  asked  the  lady,  while  a  pair  of  lively 
eyes  seemed  to  take  note  rapidly  of  all  that  was 


CHESS.  563 

in  the  room;  rapidly  but  carefully,  Lois  thought. 
She  was  glad  she  herself  was  hidden  in  the  shad 
owy  sofa  corner. 

"I  believe  that  is  always  learned  in  a  cold 
country,  where  people  have  tire,"  Mr.  Dillwyn  an 
swered  the  question. 

"These  people  who  travel  all  over  get  to  be 
insufferable ! "  the  little  lady  went  on,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Wishart;  "they  think  they  know  everything; 
and  they  are  not  a  bit  wiser  than  the  rest  of  us. 
You  were  not  at  the  De  Large's  luncheon, — what  a 
pity!  I  know;  your  cold  shut  you  up.  You  must 
take  care  of  that  cold.  Well,  you  lost  something. 
This  is  the  seventh  entertainment  that  has  been 
given  to  that  English  party;  and  every  one  of  them 
has  exceeded  the  others.  There  is  nothing  left 
for  the  eighth.  Nobody  will  dare  give  an  eighth. 
One^  is  fairly  tired  with  the  struggle  of  magni 
ficence.  It's  the  battle  of  the  giants  over  again, 
with  a  difference." 

"  It  is  not  a  battle  with  attempt  to  destroy,"  said 
her  husband. 

"Yes  it  is — to  destroy  competition.  I  have  been 
at  every  one  of  the  seven  but  one — and  I  am  abso 
lutely  tired  with  splendour.  But  there  is  really 
nothing  left  for  any  one  else  to  do.  I  don't  see 
how  one  is  to  go  any  further — without  the  lamp 
of  Aladdin." 

"  A  return  to  simplicity  would  be  grateful,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Wishart.  "  And  as  new  as  anything 
else  could  be." 


564  NOBODY. 

"  Simplicity !  0  my  dear  Mrs.  Wishart ! — don't 
talk  of  simplicity.  We  don't  want  simplicity. 
We  have  got  past  that.  Simplicity  is  the  dream 
of  children  and  country  folks;  and  it  means,  eat 
ing  your  meat  with  your  fingers." 

"  It's  the  sweetest  way  of  all,"  said  Dillwyn. 

"  Where  did  you  discover  that  ?  It  must  have 
been  among  savages.  Children — country  folks — 
and  savages,  I  ought  to  have  said." 

"  Orientals  are  not  savages.  On  the  contrary, 
very  far  exceeding  in  politeness  any  western  na 
tion  I  know  of." 

"  You  would  set  a  table,  then,  with  napkins  and 
fingers !  Or  are  the  napkins  not  essential  ?  " 

"  C'est  selon,"  said  Dillwyn.  "  In  a  strawberry 
bed,  or  under  a  cherry  tree,  I  should  vote  them 
a  nuisance.  At  an  Asiatic  grandee's  table  you 
would  have  them  embroidered  and  perfumed ;  and 
one  for  your  lap  and  another  for  your  lips." 

"  Evidently  they  are  long  past  the  stage  of  sim 
plicity.  Talking  of  napkins — we  had  them  em 
broidered — and  exquisitely;  Japanese  work; — at 
the  De  Large's.  Mine  had  a  peacock  in  one  cor 
ner;  or  I  don't  know  if  it  was  a  peacock;  it  was 
a  gay-feathered  bird — " 

"A  peacock  has  a  tail — '"suggested  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  it  had  a  tail,  but 
it  was  most  exquisite;  in  blue  and  red  and  gold;  I 
never  saw  anything  prettier.  And  at  every  plate 
were  such  exquisite  gifts!  really  elegant,  you 
know.  Flowers  are  all  very  well;  but  when  it 


CHESS.  565 

comes  to  jewellery,  I  think  it  is  a  little  beyond 
good  taste.  Everybody  can't  do  it,  you  know; 
and  it  is  rather  embarrassing  to  nous  autres" 

"Simplicity  has  its  advantages,"  observed  Mr. 
Dillwyn. 

"Nonsense,  Philip  !  You  are  as  artificial  a  man 
as  any  one  I  know." 

"In  what  sense?"  asked  Mr.  Dillwyn  calmly. 
"You  are  bound  to  explain,  for  the  sake  of  my 
character,  that  I  do  not  wear  false  heels  to  my 
boots." 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous !  You  have  no  need  to 
wear  false  heels.  Art  need  not  be/afee,  need  it  ?  * 

"True  art  never  is,"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn,  amid 
some  laughter. 

"Well,  artifice,  then?" 

"  Artifice,  I  am  afraid,  is  of  another  family,  and 
not  allied  to  truth." 

"Well,  everybody  that  knows  you  knows  you 
are  true ;  but  they  know  too  that  if  ever  there  was 
a  fastidious  man,  it  is  you;  and  a  man  that  wants 
everything  at  its  last  pitch  of  refinement." 

"Which  desirable  stage  I  should  say  the  luncheon 
you  were  describing  had  not  reached." 

"  You  don't  know.  I  had  not  told  you  the  half. 
Fancy ! — the  ice  floated  in  our  glasses  in  the  form 
of  pond  lilies;  as  pretty  as  possible,  with  broad 
leaves  and  buds." 

"How  did  they  get  it  in  such  shapes?"  asked 
Madge,  with  her  eyes  a  trifle  wider  open  than  was 
usual  with  them. 


566  NOBODY. 

"Oh,  froze  it  in  moulds  of  course.  But  you 
might  have  fancied  the  fairies  had  carved  it. 
Then,  Mrs.  Wishart,  there  was  an  arrangement 
of  glasses  over  the  gas  burners,  which  produced 
the  most  silver  sounds  of  music  you  ever  heard; 
no  chime,  you  know,  of  course;  but  a  most  pecu 
liar,  sweet,  mysterious  succession  of  musical  breath 
ings.  Add  to  that,  by  means  of  some  invisible 
vaporizers,  the  whole  air  was  filled  with  sweetness; 
now  it  was  orange  flowers,  and  now  it  was  roses, 
and  then  again  it  would  be  heliotrope  or  violets; 
I  never  saw  anything  so  refined  and  so  exquisite 
in  my  life.  Waves  of  sweetness,  rising  and  fall 
ing,  coming  and  going,  and  changing;  it  was 
perfect." 

The  little  lady  delivered  herself  of  this  descrip 
tion  with  much  animation,  accompanying  the  lat 
ter  part  of  it  with  a  soft  waving  of  her  hand ;  which 
altogether  overcame  Philip's  gravity,  and  he  burst 
into  a  laugh,  in  which  Mr.  Burrage  presently  joined 
him ;  and  Lois  and  Madge  found  it  impossible  not 
to  follow." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Philip  ?  "  the  lady  asked. 

"  I  am  reminded  of  an  old  gentleman  I  once  saw 
at  Gratz ;  he  was  copying  the  Madonna  della  Seg- 
gia  in  a  mosaic  made  with  the  different  coloured 
wax  heads  of  matches." 

"  He  must  have  been  out  of  his  head." 

"That  was  the  conclusion  I  came  to." 

"  Pray  what  brought  him  to  your  remembrance 
just  then  ?  " 


CHESS.  567 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  different  ways  people 
take  in  the  search  after  happiness." 

"  And  one  worth  as  much  as  another,  I  suppose 
you  mean  ?  That  is  a  matter  of  taste.  Mrs.  Wish- 
art,  I  see  your  happiness  is  cared  for,  in  having  such 
charming  friends  with  you.  0  by  the  way ! — talk 
ing  of  seeing, — have  you  seen  Dulles  &  Grant's 
new  Persian  rugs  and  carpets  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  hardly  anywhere.  I  wanted  to 
take  Madge  to  see  Brett's  collection  of  paintings; 
but  I  have  been  unequal  to  any  exertion." 

"Well,  the  first  time  you  go  anywhere,  go  to 
Dulles  &  Grant's.  Take  her  to  see  those.  Pic 
tures  are  common;  but  these  Turkish  rugs  and 
things  are  not.  They  are  the  most  exquisite,  the 
most  odd,  the  most  delicious  things  you  ever  saw. 
I  have  been  wanting  to  ruin  myself  with  them  ever 
since  I  saw  them.  It's  high  Art,  really.  Those 
Orientals  are  wonderful  people  !  There  is  one  rug 
— it  is  as  large  as  this  floor,  nearly, — well,  it  is 
covered  with  medallions  in  old  gold,  set  in  a  wild 
irregular  design  of  all  sorts  of  Cashmere  shawl 
colours — thrown  about  anyhow;  and  yet  the  effect 
is  rich  beyond  description ;  simple,  too.  Another, 
— 0  that  is  very  rare ;  it  is  a  rare  Keelum  carpet ; 
let  me  see  if  I  can  describe  it.  The  ground  is  a 
full,  bright  red.  Over  this  run  palm  leaves  and 
little  bits  of  ruby  and  maroon  and  gold  mosaic ;  and 
between  the  palm  leaves  come  great  ovals  of  olive 
mixed  with  black,  blue,  and  yellow ;  shading  off  into 
them.  I  never  saw  anything  I  wanted  so  much." 


568  NOBODY. 

"  What  price  ?  " 

"0  they  are  all  prices.  The  Keelum  carpet  is 
only  fifteen  hundred — but  my  husband  says  it  is 
too  much.  Then  another  Persian  carpet  has  a  cen 
tre  of  red  and  white.  Kound  this  a  border  of  palm 
leaves.  Round  these  another  border  of  deliciously 
mixed  up  warm  colours ;  warm  and  rich.  Then  an 
other  border  of  palms;  and  then  the  rest  of  the 
carpet  is  in  blended  shades  of  dark  dull  red  and 
pink,  with  olive  flowers  thrown  over  it.  O  I 
can't  tell  you  the  half.  You  must  go  and  see. 
They  have  immensely  wide  borders,  all  of  them; 
and  great,  thick,  soft  piles." 

"Have  you  been  to  Brett's  Collection?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  there?" 

"The  usual  thing.  0  but  I  haven't  told  you 
what  I  have  come  here  for  to-night." 

"  I  thought  it  was,  to  see  me." 

"Yes,  but  not  for  pleasure,  this  time,"  said  the 
lively  lady  laughing.  "  I  had  business — I  really 
do  have  business  sometimes.  I  came  this  evening, 
because  I  wanted  to  see  you  when  I  could  have  a 
chance  to  explain  myself.  Mrs.  Wishart,  I  want 
you  to  take  my  place.  They  have  made  me  first 
directress  of  the  Forlorn  Children's  Home." 

"  Does  the  epithet  apply  to  the  place  ?  or  to  the 
children  ?  "  Mr.  Dillwyn  asked. 

"Now  I  cannot  undertake  the  office,"  Mrs.  Bur- 
rage  went  on  without  heeding  him.  "  My  hands 
are  as  full  as  they  can  hold,  and  my  head  fuller. 


CHESS.  569 

You  must  take  it,  Mrs.  Wishart.  You  are  just  the 
person." 

"I?"  said  Mrs.  Wishart  with  no  delighted  ex 
pression.  "  What  are  the  duties  ?  " 

"0,  just  oversight,  you  know;  keeping  things 
straight.  Everybody  needs  to  be  kept  up  to  the 
mark.  I  cannot,  for  our  Beading  Club  meets  just 
at  the  time  when  I  ought  to  be  up  at  the  Home." 

The  ladies  went  into  a  closer  discussion  of  the 
subject  in  its  various  bearings;  and  Mr.  Dillwyn 
and  Madge  returned  to  their  chess  play.  Lois  lay 
watching  and  thinking.  Mr.  Burrage  looked  on 
at  the  chessboard,  and  made  remarks  on  the  game 
languidly.  By  and  by  the  talk  of  the  two  ladies 
ceased,  and  the  head  of  Mrs.  Burrage.  came  round, 
and  she  also  studied  the  chess  players.  Her  face 
was  observant  and  critical,  Lois  thought;  oddly 
observant  and  thoughtful. 

"Where  did  you  get  such  charming  friends  to 
stay  with  you,  Mrs.  Wishart?  You  are  to  be 
envied." 

Mrs.  Wishart  explained,  how  Lois  had  been  ill, 
and  had  come  to  get  well  under  her  care. 

"You  must  bring  them  to  see  me.  Will  you? 
Are  they  fond  of  music  ?  Bring  them  to  my  next 
musical  evening." 

And  then  she  rose ;  but  before  taking  leave  she 
tripped  across  to  Lois's  couch  and  came  and  stood 
quite  close  to  her,  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
what  seemed  to  the  girl  rather  an  odd  silence. 

"  You  aren't  equal  to  playing  chess  yet?"  was  her 


570  NOBODY. 

equally  odd  abrupt  question.  Lois's  smile  shewed 
some  amusement. 

"  My  brother  is  such  an  idle  fellow,  he  has  got 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  amuse  sick  people. 
It's  charity  to  employ  him.  And  when  you  are 
able  to  come  out,  if  you'll  come  to  me,  you  shall 
hear  some  good  music.  Good  bye  !  " 

Her  brother !  thought  Lois  as  she  went  off.  Mr. 
Dillwyn  her  brother!  I  don't  believe  she  likes 
Madge  and  me  to  know  him. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chauncey  Burrage  drove 
away  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes;  then  the  lady 
broke  out. 

"  There's  mischief  there,  Chauncey !  " 

"What  mischief?"  the  gentleman  asked  inno 
cently. 

"  Those  girls." 

"Very  handsome  girls.  At  least  the  one  that 
was  visible." 

"The  other's  worse.  I  saw  her.  The  one  you 
saw  is  handsome ;  but  the  other  is  peculiar.  She  is 
rare.  Maybe  not  just  so  handsome,  but  more  re 
fined  ;  and  peculiar.  I  don't  know  just  what  it  is  in 
her ;  but  she  fascinated  me.  Masses  of  auburn  hair 
— not  just  auburn — more  of  a  golden  touch  to  the 
brown — with  a  gold  reflet,  you  know,  that  is  so 
lovely ;  and  a  face — " 

"  Well,  what  sort  of  a  face  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Burrage, 
as  his  spouse  paused. 

"  Something  between  a  baby  and  an  angel,  and 
yet  with  a  sort  of  sybil  look  of  wisdom.  I  believe 


CHESS.  571 

she  put  one  of  Domenichino's  sybils  into  my  head; 
there's  that  kind  of  complexion — " 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  gentleman  laughing,  "  you 
could  not  tell  what  complexion  she  was  of.  She 
was  in  a  shady  corner." 

"  I  was  quite  near  her.  Now  that  sort  of  thing 
might  just  catch  Philip." 

"Well,"  said  the  gentleman,  "you  cannot  help 
that." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  can  or  no !  " 

"  Why  should  you  want  to  help  it,  after  all  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  I  don't  want  Philip  to  make  a  mis 
match." 

"  Why  should  it  be  a  mis-match  ?  " 

"  Philip  has  got  too  much  money  to  -marry  a  girl 
with  nothing." 

Mr.  Burrage  laughed.  His  wife  demanded  to 
know  what  he  was  laughing  at?  and  he  said  "the 
logic  of  her  arithmetic." 

"  You  men  have  no  more  logic  in  action,  than  we 
women  have  in  speculation.  I  am  logical  the  other 
way." 

"  That  is  too  involved  for  me  to  follow.  But  it 
occurs  to  me  to  ask,  why  should  there  be  any  match 
in  the  case  here  ?  " 

"That's  so  like  a  man!  Why  shouldn't  there? 
Take  a  man  like  my  brother,  who  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  himself;  a  man  whose  eye  and  ear  are 
refined  till  he  judges  everything  according  to  a 
standard  of  beauty; — and  give  him  a  girl  like  that 
to  look  at!  I  said  she  reminded  me  of  one  of 


572  NOBODY. 

Domenichino's  sybils — but  it  isn't  that.  I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is.  She  is  like  one  of  Fra  Angelico's 
angels.  Fancy  Philip  set  down  opposite  to  one  of 
Fra  Angelico's  a.ngels  in  flesh  and  blood! — " 

"  Can  a  man  do  better  than  marry  an  angel  ?  " 

"  Yes !  so  long  as  he  is  not  an  angel  himself,  and 
don't  live  in  Paradise." 

"  They  do  not  marry  in  Paradise,"  said  Mr.  Bur- 
rage  dryly.  "  But  why  a  fellow  may  not  get  as 
near  a  Paradisaical  condition  as  he  can,  with  the 
drawback  of  marriage,  and  in  this  mundane  sphere, 
— I  do  not  see." 

"Men  never  see  anything  till  afterwards.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  this  girl,  Chauncey,  except 
her  face.  But  it  is  just  the  way  with  men,  to  fall 
in  love  with  a  face.  I  do  not  know  what  she  is, 
only  she  is  nobody;  and  Philip  ought  to  marry 
somebody.  I  know  where  they  are  from.  She  has 
no  money,  and  she  has  no  family ;  she  has  of  course 
no  breeding;  she  has  probably  no  education,  to  fit 
her  for  being  his  wife.  Philip  ought  to  have  the 
very  reverse  of  all  that.  Or  else  he  ought  not  to 
marry  at  all,  and  let  his  money  come  to  little  Phil 
Chauncey." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  asked  the 
gentleman,  seeming  amused. 

But  Mrs.  Burrage  made  no  answer,  and  the  rest 
of  the  drive,  long  as  it  was,  was  rather  stupid. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

RULES. 

THE  next  day  Mr.  Dillwyn  came  to  take  Madge 
to  see  Brett's  collection  of  paintings.  Mrs. 
Wishart  declared  herself  not  yet  up  to  it.  Madge 
came  home  in  a  great  state  of  delight. 

"It  was  so  nice!"  she  explained  to  her  sister; 
"just  as  nice  as  it  could  be.  Mr.  Dillwyn  was 
so  pleasant;  and  told  me  everything  and  about 
everything;  about  the  pictures,  and  the  masters; 
I  shouldn't  have  known  what  anything  meant, 
but  he  explained  it  all.  And  it  was  such  fun  to 
see  the  people." 

"  The  people ! "  said  Lois. 

"Yes.  There  were  a  great  many  people;  almost 
a  crowd;  and  it  did  amuse  me  to  watch  them." 

"  I  thought  you  went  to  see  the  paintings." 

"Well,  I  saw  the  paintings;  and  I  heard  more 
about  them  than  I  can  ever  remember." 

"  What  was  there  ?  " 

"01  can't  tell  you.  Landscapes  and  landscapes ; 
and  then  Holy  Families;  and  saints  in  misery,  of 

(573) 


574  NOBODY. 

one  sort  or  another;  and  battle  pieces,  but  those 
were  such  confusion  that  all  I  could  make  out  was 
iiorses  on  their  hind  legs;  and  portraits.  I  think 
it  is  nonsense  for  people  to  try  to  paint  battles; 
they  can't  do  it;  and  besides,  as  far  as  the  fighting 
goes,  one  fight  is  just  like  another.  Mr.  Dillwyn 
told  me  of  a  travelling  showman,  in  Germany,  who 
travelled  about  with  the  panorama  of  a  battle ;  and 
every  year  he  gave  it  a  new  name,  the  name  of 
the  last  battle  that  was  in  men's  mouths;  and  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  change  the  uniforms,  he  said. 
He  had  a  pot  of  green  paint  for  the  Prussians,  and 
red  for  the  English,  and  blue  I  believe  for  the  French, 
and  so  on;  and  it  did  just  as  well." 

"  What  did  you  see  that  you  liked  best  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  a  little  picture  of  kittens, 
in  and  out  of  a  basket.  Mr.  Dillwyn  didn't  care 
about  it;  but  I  thought  it  was  the  prettiest  thing 
there.  Mrs.  Burrage  was  there." 

"  Was  she !  " 

"And  Mr.  Dillwyn  does  know  more  than  ever 
anybody  else  in  the  world,  I  think.  0  he  was  so 
nice,  Lois!  so  nice  and  kind.  I  wouldn't  have  given 
a  pin  to  be  there,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  He 
wouldn't  let  me  get  tired;  and  he  made  everything 
amusing;  and  0,  I  could  have  sat  there  till  now 
and  watched  the  people." 

"The  people!  If  the  pictures  were  good,  I  don't 
see  how  you  could  have  eyes  for  the  people." 

" '  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,'  my 
dear;  and  I  like  them  alive  better  than  painted. 


RULES.  575 

It  was  fun  to  see  the  dresses;  and  then  the  ways. 
How  some  people  tried  to  be  interested — " 

"  Like  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  was  interested;  and 
some  talked  and  flirted,  and  some  stared.  I 
watched  every  new  set  that  came  in.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  says  he  will  come  and  take  us  to  the  Phil 
harmonic,  as  soon  as  the  performances  begin." 

"  Madge,  it  is  better  for  us  to  go  with  Mrs. 
Wishart." 

"  She  may  go  too,  if  she  likes." 

"  And  it  is  better  for  us  not  to  go  with  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn,  more  than  we  can  help." 

"I  won't,"  said  Madge.  "I  can't  help  going 
with  him  whenever  he  asks  me,  and  I  am  not 
going  any  other  time." 

"  What  did  Mrs.  Burrage  say  to  you  ?  " 

"Hm! —  Not  much.  I  caught  her  looking  at 
me,  more  tkan  once.  She  said  she  would  have 
a  musical  party  next  week,  and  we  must  come; 
and  she  asked  if  you  would  be  well  enough." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  not." 

"  That's  nonsense.  Mr.  Dillwyn  wants  us  to  go, 
I  know." 

"That  is  not  a  reason  for  going." 

"  1  think  it  is.  He  is  just  as  good  as  he  can  be, 
and  I  like  him  more  than  anybody  else  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life.  I'd  like  to  see  the  thing  he'd  ask  me, 
that  /wouldn't  do." 

"  Madge,  Madge !— " 

"Hush,  Lois;  that's  nonsense." 


576  NOBODY. 

"  Madge  you  trouble  me  very  much." 

"And  that's  nonsense  too." 

Madge  was  beginning  to  get  over  the  first  sense 
of  novelty  and  strangeness  in  all  about  her;  and 
as  she  overcame  that,  a  feeling  of  delight  replaced 
it,  and  grew  and  grew.  Madge  was  revelling  in 
enjoyment.  She  went  out  with  Mrs.  Wishart,  for 
drives  in  the  Park  and  for  shopping  expeditions 
in  the  city,  and  once  or  twice  to  make  visits.  She 
went  out  with  Mr.  Dillwyn  too,  as  we  have  seen, 
who  took  her  to  drive,  and  conducted  her  to  gal 
leries  of  pictures  and  museums  of  curiosities;  and 
finally,  and  with  Mrs.  Wishart,  to  a  Philharmonic 
rehearsal.  Madge  came  home  in  a  great  state  of 
exultation;  though  Lois  was  almost  indignant  to 
find  that  the  place  and 'the  people  had  rivalled  the 
performance  in  producing  it.  Lois  herself  was  al 
most  well  enough  to  go,  though  delicate  enough 
still  to  allow  her  the  choice  of  staying  at  home. 
She  was  looking  like  herself  again;  yet  a  little 
paler  in  colour  and  more  deliberate  in  action  than 
her  old  wont;  both  the  tokens  of  a  want  of  strength 
which  continued  to  be  very  manifest.  One  day 
Madge  came  home  from  going  with  Mrs.  Wishart 
to  Dulles  &  Grant's.  I  may  remark  that  the  even 
ing  at  Mrs.  Burrage's  had  not  yet  come  off,  owing 
to  a  great  storm  the  night  of  the  music  party ;  but 
another  was  looming  up  in  the  distance. 

"  Lois,"  Madge  delivered  herself  as  she  was  tak 
ing  off  her  wrappings, — "  it  is  a  great  thing  to  be 
rich!" 


RULES.  577 

"  One  needs  to  be  sick  to  know  how  true  that 
is,"  responded  Lois.  "  If  you  could  guess  what  I 
would  have  given  last  summer  and  fall  for  a  few 
crumbs  of  the  comfort  with  which  this  house  is 
stacked  full — like  hay  in  a  barn !  " 

"But  I  am  not  thinking  of  comfort." 

"  I  am.  How  I  wanted  everything  for  the  sick 
people  at  Esterbrooke.  Think  of  not  being  able 
to  change  their  bed  linen  properly,  nor  anything 
like  properly ! " 

"Of  course,"  said  Madge,  "poor  people  do  not 
have  plenty  of  things.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of 
comfort,  when  I  spoke." 

"  Comfort  is  the  best  thing." 

"  Don't  you  like  pretty  things?  " 

"Too  well,  I  am  afraid." 

"  You  cannot  like  them  too  well.  Pretty  things 
were  meant  to  be  liked.  What  else  were  they 
made  for?  And  of  all  pretty  things — 0,  those 
carpets  and  rugs !  Lois,  I  never  saw  or  dreamed 
of  anything  so  magnificent.  I  should  like  to  be 
rich,  for  once  !  " 

"  To  buy  a  Persian  carpet  ?  " 

"  Yes !     That  and  other  things.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Madge,  don't  you  know  this  was  what  grand 
mother  was  afraid  of,  when  we  were  learning  to 
know  Mr.  Dillwyn?" 

"What?"  said  Madge  defiantly. 

"That  we  would  be  bewitched — or  dazzled— and 
lose  sight  of  better  things ;  I  think  *  bewitched '  is 
the  word ;  all  these  beautiful  things  and  this  lux- 


578  NOBODY. 

urious  comfort — it  is  bewitching;  and  so  are  the 
fine  manners  and  the  cultivation  and  the  delight 
ful  talk.  I  confess  it.  I  feel  it  as  much  as  you  do ; 
but  this  is  just  what  dear  grandmother  wanted  to 
protect  us  from." 

"What  did  she  want  to  protect  us  from?"  re 
peated  Madge  vehemently.  "Not  Persian  carpets, 
nor  luxury;  we  are  not  likely  to  be  tempted  by 
either  of  them  in  Shampuashuh." 

"  We  might  here" 

"Be  tempted?  To  what?  I  shall  hardly  be 
likely  to  go  and  buy  a  fifteen-hundred-dollar  car 
pet.  And  it  was  cheap,  at  that,  Lois !  I  can  live 
without  it,  besides.  I  haven't  got  so  far  that  I 
can't  stand  on  the  floor,  without  any  carpet  at  all, 
if  I  must.  You  needn't  think  it." 

"  I  do  not  think  it.  Only,  do  not  be  tempted  to 
fancy,  darling,  that  there  is  any  way  open  to  you 
to  get  such  things;  that  is  all." 

"  Any  way  open  to  me  ?  You  mean,  I  might 
marry  a  rich  man,  some  day  ?  " 

"  You  might  think  you  might." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

"Because,  dear  Madge,  you  will  not  be  asked. 
I  told  you  why.  And  if  you  were, — Madge,  you 
would  not,  you  could  not,  marry  a  man  that  was 
not  a  Christian  ?  Grandmother  made  me  promise 
I  never  would." 

"  She  did  not  make  me  promise  it.  Lois,  don't 
be  ridiculous.  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody  at 
present;  but  I  like  Persian  carpets,  and  nothing 


RULES.  579 

will  make  me  say  I  don't.  And  I  like  silver  and 
gold;  and  servants,  and  silk  dresses,  and  ice  cream, 
and  pictures,  and  big  houses,  and  big  mirrors,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it." 

"You  can  find  it  all  in  the  eighteenth  chapter  of 
Revelation,  in  the  description  of  the  city  Babylon ; 
which  means  the  world." 

"  I  thought  Babylon  was  Rome." 

"  Read  for,  yourself. " 

I  think  Madge  did  not  read  it  for  herself,  how 
ever;  and  the  days  went  on  after  the  accustomed 
fashion,  till  the  one  arrived  which  was  fixed  for 
Mrs.  Chauncey  Burrage's  second  musical  party. 
The  three  ladies  were  all  invited.  Mrs.  Wishart 
supposed  they  were  all  going;  but  when  the  day 
came  Lois  begged  off.  She  did  not  feel  like  going, 
she  said;  it  would  be  far  pleasanter  to  her  if  she 
could  stay  at  home  quietly;  it  would  be  better  for 
her.  Mrs.  Wishart  demurred;  the  invitation  had 
been  very  urgent;  Mrs.  Burrage  would  be  disap 
pointed  ;  and  besides,  she  was  a  little  proud  herself 
of  her  handsome  young  relations,  and  wanted  the 
glory  of  producing  them  together.  However,  Lois 
was  earnest  in  her  wish  to  be  left  at  home;  quietly 
earnest,  which  is  the  more  difficult  to  deal  with; 
and'  knowing  her  passionate  love  for  music,  Mrs. 
Wishart  decided  that  it  must  be  her  lingering  weak 
ness  and  languor  which  indisposed  her  for  going. 
Lois  was  indeed  looking  well  again;  but  both  her 
friends  had  noticed  that  she  was  not  come  back  to 
her  old  lively  energy,  whether  of  speaking  or  do- 


580  NOBODY. 

ing.  Strength  comes  back  so  slowly,  they  said, 
after  one  of  those  fevers.  Yet  Madge  was  not  sat 
isfied  with  this  reasoning,  and  pondered,  as  she  and 
Mrs.  Wishart  drove  away,  what  else  might  be  the 
cause  of  Lois's  refusal  to  go  with  them. 

Meanwhile,  Lois  having  seen  them  off  and  heard 
the  house  door  close  upon  them,  drew  up  her  chair 
before  the  fire  and  sat  down.  She  was  in  the  back 
drawing  room,  the  windows  of  w^hich  looked  out 
to  the  river  and  the  opposite  shore ;  but  the  shut 
ters  were  closed  and  the  curtains  drawn,  and  only 
the  interior  view  to  be  had  now.  So  or  any  way, 
Lois  loved  the  place.  It  was  large,  roomy,  old- 
fashioned,  with  none  of  the  stiffness  of  new  things 
about  it;  elegant,  with  the  many  tokens  of  home 
life,  and  of  a  long  habit  of  culture  and  comfort. 
In  a  big  chimney  a  big  wood  fire  was  burning 
quietly;  the  room  was  softly  warm;  a  brilliant 
lamp  behind  Lois  banished  even  imaginary  gloom, 
and  a  faint  red  shine  came  from  the  burning  hick 
ory  logs.  Only  this  last  illumination  fell  on  Lois's 
face,  and  in  it  Lois's  face  shewed  grave  and  troubled. 
She  was  more  like  a  sybil  at  this  moment,  looking 
into  confused  earthly  things,  than  like  one  of  Fra 
Angelico's  angels  rejoicing  in*  the  clear  light  of 
heaven. 

Lois  pulled  her  chair  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  bent 
down,  leaning  towards  it;  not  for  warmth,  for  she 
was  not  in  the  least  cold ;  but  for  company,  or  for 
counsel.  Who  has  not  taken  counsel  of  a  fire? 
And  Lois  was  in  perplexity,  of  some  sort,  and  try- 


RULES. 

ing  to  think  hard  and  to  examine  into  hersel 
She  half  wished  she  had  gone  to  the  party  at  M 
Burrage's.  And  why  had  she  not  gone  ?  She  did 
not  want,  she  did  not  think  it  was  best,  to  meet 
Mr.  Dillwyn  there.  And  why  not,  seeing  that  she 
met  him  constantly  where  she  was?  Well,  that 
she  could  not  help ;  this  would  be  voluntary ;  put 
ting  herself  in  his  way,  and  in  his  sister's  way. 
Better  not,  Lois  said  to  herself.  But  why,  better 
not  ?  It  would  surely  be  a  pleasant  gathering  at 
Mrs.  Burrage's,  a  pleasant  party;  her  parties  always/ 
were  pleasant,  Mrs.  Wishart  said;  there  would  be 
none  but  the  best  sort  of  people  there,  good  talking 
and  good  music;  Lois  would  have  liked  it.  What 
if  Mr.  Dillwyn  were  there  too  ?  Must  she  keep 
out  of  sight  of  him  ?  Why  should  she  keep  out  of 
sight  of  him?  Lois  put  the  question  sharply  to 
her  conscience.  And  she  found  that  the  answer, 
if  given  truly,  would  be  that  she  fancied  Mr.  Dil 
lwyn  liked  her  sister's  society  better  than  her  own. 
But  what  then?  The  blood  began  to  rush  over 
Lois's  cheeks  and  brow  and  to  burn  in  her  pulses. 
Then,  it  must  be  that  she  herself  liked  his  society 
— liked  him — yes,  a  little  too  well;  else,  what  harm 
in  his  preferring  Madge  ?  0  could  it  be  ?  Lois 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a  while ;  greatly  dis 
turbed;  she  was  very  much  afraid  the  case  was 
even  so. 

But  suppose  it  so ;  still  what  of  it  ?  What  did  it 
signify,  whom  Mr.  Dillwyn  liked  ?  to  Lois  he  could 
never  be  anything.  Only  a  pleasant  acquaintance. 


582  NOBODY. 

He  and  she  were  in  two  different  lines  of  life,  lines 
that  never  cross.  Her  promise  was  passed  to  her 
grandmother;  she  could  never  marry  a  man  who 
was  not  a  Christian.  Happily  Mr.  Dillwyn  did 
not  want  to  marry  her;  no  such  question  was  com 
ing  up  for  decision.  Then  what  was  it  to  her  if 
he  liked  Madge  ?  Something,  because  it  was  not 
liking  that  would  end  in  anything;  it  was  impos 
sible  a  man  in  his  position  and  circumstances 
should  choose  for  a  wife  one  in  hers.  If  he  could 
make  such  a  choice,  it  would  be  Madge's  duty,  as 
much  as  it  would  be  her  own,  to  refuse  him. 
Would  Madge  refuse?  Lois  believed  not.  Indeed 
she  thought  no  one  could  refuse  him,  that  had  not 
unconquerable  reasons  of  conscience;  and  Madge, 
she  knew,  did  not  share  those  which  were  so 
strong  in  her  own  mind.  Ought  Madge  to  share 
them  ?  Was  it  indeed  an  absolute  command  that 
justified  and  necessitated  the  promise  made  to  her 
grandmother?  or  was  it  a  less  stringent  thing, 
that  might  possibly  be  passed  over  by  one  not  so 
bound  ?  Lois's  mind  was  in  a  turmoil  of  thoughts 
most  unusual,  and  most  foreign  to  her  nature  and 
habit;  thoughts  seemed  to  go  round  in  a  whirl. 
And  in  the  midst  of  the  whirl,  there  would  come 
before  her  mind's  eye,  not  now  Tom  Caruthers' 
face,  but  the  vision  of  a  pair  of  pleasant  gray  eyes 
at  once  keen  and  gentle ;  or  of  a  close  head  of  hair 
with  a  white  hand  roving  amid  the  thick  locks  of 
it ;  or  the  outlines  of  a  figure  manly  and  lithe ;  or 
some  little  thing  done  with  that  ease  of  manner 


RULES.  583 

which  was  so  winning.  Sometimes  she  saw  them 
as  in  Mrs.  Wishart's  drawing  room,  and  sometimes 
at  the  table  in  the  dear  old  house  in  Shampuashuh, 
and  sometimes  under  the  drip  of  an  umbrella  in  a 
pouring  rain,  and  sometimes  in  the  old  school- 
house.  Manly  and  kind,  and  full  of  intelligence, 
filled  with  knowledge,  well-bred,  and  noble;  so 
Lois  thought  of  him.  Yet  he  was  not  a  Christian, 
therefore  no  fit  partner  for  Madge  or  for  any  one 
else  who  was  a  Christian.  Could  that  be  the  abso 
lute  fact  ?  Must  it  be  ?  Was  such  the  inevitable 
and  universal  conclusion  ?  On  what  did  the  logic 
of  it  rest?  Some  words  in  the  Bible  bore  the 
brunt  of  it,  she  knew;  Lois  had  read  them  and 
talked  them  over  with  her  grandmother;  and 
now  an  irresistible  desire  took  possession  of  her  to 
read  them  again,  and  more  critically.  She  jumped 
up  and  ran  up  stairs  for  her  Bible. 

The  fire  was  down,  in  her  own  room;  the  gas 
was  not  lit;  so  she  went  back  to  the  bright  draw 
ing  room  which  to-night  she  had  all  to  herself. 
She  laid  her  book  on  the  table  and  opened  it,  and 
then  was  suddenly  checked  by  the  question — what 
did  all  this  matter  to  her,  that  she  should  be  so 
fiercely  eager  about  it  ?  Dismay  struck  her  anew. 
What  was  any  un-Christian  man  to  her,  that  her 
heart  should  beat  so  at  considering  possible  rela 
tions  between  them  ?  No  such  relations  were  de 
sired  by  any  such  person ;  what  ailed  Lois  even  to 
take  up  the  subject?  If  Mr.  Dillwyn  liked  either 
of  the  sisters  particularly,  it  was  Madge.  Proba- 


584  NOBODY. 

bly  his  liking,  if  it  existed,  was  no  more  than  Tom 
Caruthers',  of  which  Lois  thought  with  great  scorn. 
Still,  she  argued,  did  it  not  concern  her  to  know 
with  certainty  what  Madge  ought  to  do,  in  the 
event  of  Mr.  Dillwyn  being  not  precisely  like  Tom 
Caruthers  ? 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

ABOUT    WORK. 

THE  sound  of  the  opening  door  made  her  start 
up.  She  would  not  have  even  a  servant  sur 
prise  her  so ;  kneeling  on  the  floor  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands  on  the  table.  She  started  up 
hurriedly ;  and  then  was  confounded  to  see  entering 
• — Mr.  Dillwyn  himself.  She  had  heard  no  ring  of 
the  door  bell;  that  must  have  been  when  she  was 
up  stairs  getting  her  Bible.  Lois  found  her  feet, 
in  the  midst  of  a  terrible  confusion  of  thoughts; 
but  the  very  inward  confusion  admonished  her  to 
be  outwardly  calm.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  the 
world,  and  she  had  not  had  very  much  experience 
in  the  difficult  art  of  hiding  her  feelings,  or  acting 
in  any  way;  nevertheless  she  was  a  true  woman, 
and  woman's  blessed — or  cursed? — instinct  of  self- 
command  came  to  her  aid.  She  met  Mr.  Dillwyn 
with  a  face  and  manner  perfectly  composed;  she 
knew  she  did ;  and  cried  to  herself  privately  some 
thing  very  like  a  sea  captain's  order  to  his  helms 
man — "Steady!  keep  her  so."  Mr.  Dillwyn  saw 


586  NOBODY. 

that  her  face  was  flushed ;  but  he  saw  too  that  he 
had  disturbed  her  and  startled  her;  that  must  be 
the  reason.  She  looked  so  far  from  being  de 
lighted  that  he  could  draw  no  other  conclusion. 
So  they  shook  hands.  She  thought  he  did  not 
look  delighted  either.  Of  course,  she  thought; 
Madge  was  not  there.  And  Mr.  Dillwyn,  what 
ever  his  mood  when  he  came,  recognized  immedi 
ately  the  decided  reserve  and  coolness  of  Lois's 
manner,  and,  to  use  another  nautical  phrase,  laid 
his  course  accordingly. 

"  How  do  you  do,  this  evening  ?  " 

"  I  think,  quite  well.  There  is  nobody  at  home 
but  me,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"So  I  have  been  told.  But  it  is  a  great  deal 
pleasanter  here,  even  with  only  one  third  of  the 
family,  than  it  is  in  my  solitary  rooms  at  the 
hotel." 

At  that  Lois  sat  down,  and  so  did  he.  She 
could  not  seem  to  bid  him  go  away.  However 
she  said, — 

"  Mrs.  Wishart  has  taken  Madge  to  your  sister's. 
It  is  the  night  of  her  music  party." 

"Why  did  not  Mrs.  Wishart  take  you?" 

"I  thought — it  was  better  for  me  to  stay  at 
home,"  Lois  answered  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  an  evening  alone !  " 

"No  indeed;  how  could  I  be?  Indeed  I  think 
in  New  York  it  is  rather  a  luxury." 

Then  she  wished' she  had  not  said  that.  Would 
he  think  she  meant  to  intimate  that  he  was  depriv- 


ABOUT  WORK.  587 

ing  her  of  a  luxury  ?  Lois  was  annoyed  at  herself; 
and  hurried  on  to  say  something  else,  which  she 
did  not  intend  should  be  so  much  in  the  same  line 
as  it  proved.  Indeed  she  was  shocked  the  moment 
she  had  spoken. 

"Don't  you  go  to  your  sister's  music  parties, 
Mr.  Dillwyn?" 

"Not  universally." 

"I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  music" — Lois 
said  apologetically. 

"Yes,"  he  said  smiling.     "That  keeps  me  away." 

"  I  thought," — said  Lois, — "  I  thought,  they  said, 
the  music  was  so  good  ? " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  they  say  it.  And  they  mean 
it  honestly." 

"And  it  is  not?" 

"  I  find  it  quite  too  severe  a  tax  on  my  powers 
of  simulation  and  dissimulation.  Those  are  powers 
you  never  call  in  play?"  he  added  with  a  most 
pleasant  smile  and  glance  at  her. 

"  Simulation  and  dissimulation  ?  "  repeated  Lois, 
who  had  by  no  means  got  her  usual  balance  of 
mind  or  manner  yet.  "Are  those  powers  which 
ought  to  be  called  into  play  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  .do  ?  " 

"When?"  " 

"When,  for  instance,  you  are  in  the  mood  for 
a  grand  theme  of  Handel,  and  somebody  gives 
you  a  sentimental  bit  of  Rossini.  Or  when  Men 
delssohn  is  played  as  if  'songs  without  words'  were 
songs  without  meaning.  Or  when  a  singer  simply 


588     .  NOBODY. 

displays  to  you  a  VOICE,  and  leaves  music  out  of 
the  question  altogether." 

"  That  is  hard !  "  said  Lois. 

"  What  is  one  to  do  then  ?  " 

"  It  is  hard," — Lois  said  again.  "  But  I  suppose 
one  ought  always  to  be  true." 

"  If  I  am  true,  I  must  say  what  I  think." 

"  Yes.     If  you  speak  at  all." 

"  What  will  they  think  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lois.  "  But  after  all,  that  is  not  the 
first  question." 

"  What  is  the  first  question  ?  " 

"  I  think— to  do  right," 

"But  what  is  right?  What  will  people  think  of 
me,  if  I  tell  them  their  playing  is  abominable  ?  " 

"You  need  not  say  it  just  with  those  words," 
said  Lois.  "And  perhaps,  if  anybody  told  them 
the  truth,  they  would  do  better.  At  any  rate, 
what  they  think  is  not  the  question,  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  What  is  the  question  ?  "  he  asked  smiling. 

"  What  the  Lord  will  think." 

"  Miss  Lois,  do  you  never  use  dissimulation  ?  " 

Lois  could  not  help  colouring,  a  little  dis 
tressed. 

"  I  try  not,"  she  answered.  "  I  dare  say  I  do, 
sometimes.  I  dare  not  say  I  do  not.  It  is  very 
difficult  for  a  woman  to  help  it." 

"  More  difficult  for  a  woman  than  for  a  man  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  suppose  it  is." 

"  Why  should  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know — unless  because  she  is  the  weak- 


ABOUT  WORK.  589 

er,  and  it  may  be  part  of  the  defensive  armour  of  a 
weak  animal." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  laughed  a  little. 

"But  that  is  ^simulation, "  said  Lois.  "One  is 
not  bound  always  to  say  all  one  thinks ;  only  never 
to  say  what  one  does  not  think." 

"You  would  always  give  a  true  answer  to  a 
question  ?  " 

"  I  would  try." 

"  I  believe  it.  And  now,  Miss  Lois,  in  that 
trust,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you 
recollect  a  certain  walk  in  the  rain?" 

"  Certainly !  "  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  And  the  conversation  we  held  under  the  um 
brella,  without  simulation  or  dissimulation?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  tacitly — perhaps  more  than  tacitly — blamed 
me  for  having  spent  so  much  of  my  life  in  idleness ; 
that  is,  uselessly,  to  all  but  myself." 

"Did  I!" 

"  You  did.  And  I  have  thought  about  it  since. 
And  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  to  be  idle  is 
to  be  neither  wise  nor  dignified.  But  here  rises 
a  difficulty.  I  think  I  would  like  to  be  of  some 
use  in  the  world,  if  I  could.  But  I  do  not  know 
what  to  set  about." 

Lois  waited,  with  silent  attention. 

"My  question  is  this:  How  is  a  man  to  find  his 
work  in  the  world  ?  " 

Lois's  eyes,  which  had  been  on  his  face,  went 


590  NOBODY. 

away  to  the  fire.  His,  which,  had  been  on  the 
ground,  rose  to  her  face. 

"  I  am  in  a  fog,"  he  said 

"I  believe  every  one  has  his  work,"  Lois  re 
marked. 

"  I  think  you  said  so." 

"  The  Bible  says  so,  at  any  rate." 

" Then,  how  is  a  man  to  find  his  work?"  Philip 
asked,  half  smiling;  at  the  same  time  he  drew  up 
his  chair  a  little  nearer  the  fire  and  began  to  put 
the  same  in  order.  Evidently  he  was  not  going 
away  immediately,  and  had  a  mind  to  talk  out  the 
subject.  But  why  with  her?  And  was  he  not  go 
ing  to  his  sister's  ? — 

"  If  each  one  has,  not  only  his  work  but  his 
peculiar  work,  it  must  be  a  very  important  matter 
to  make  sure  he  has  found  it.  A  wheel  in  a  ma 
chine  can  do  its  own  work,  but  it  cannot  take  the 
part  of  another  wheel.  And  your  words  suppose 
an  exact  adjustment  of  parts  and  powers." 

"  The  Bible  words, — "  said  Lois. 

"Yes.  Well,  to  my  question.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  ought  to  do,  Miss  Lois.  I  do  not  see  the 
work  to  my  hand.  How  am  I  ever  to  be  any 
wiser?" 

"  I  am  the  last  person  you  should  ask.  And  be 
sides, — I  do  not  think  anybody  knows  enough  to 
set  another  his  appointed  task." 

"  How  is  he  to  find  it,  then  ?  " 

"  He  must  ask  the  One  who  does  know." 

"Ask? — Pra?/,  you  mean?" 


ABOUT  WORK.  591 

"Yes,  pray.  He  must  ask  to  be  shewn  what  he 
ought  to  do,  and  how  to  do  it.  God  knows  what 
place  he  is  meant  to  fill  in  the  world." 

"  And  if  he  asks,  will  he  be  told  ?  " 

"Certainly.  That  is  the  promise.  'If  any  of 
you  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth 
to  all  men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not ;  and  it  shall 
\>e  given  him.1 " 

Lois's  eyes  came  over  to  her  questioner  at  the 
last  words,  as  it  were,  setting  a  seal  to  them. 

"How  will  he  get  the  answer?  Suppose,  for  in 
stance,  I  want  wisdom;  and  I  kneel  down  and 
pray  that  I  may  know  my  work.  I  rise  from  my 
prayer, — there  is  no  voice,  nor  writing,  nor  visible 
sign;  how  am  I  the  wiser?" 

"You  think  it  will  not  be  given  him?"  Lois  said 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"  I  do  not  say  that.     I  dare  not.     But  how  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  think  that,  or  the  asking  will  be 
vain.  You  must  believe  the  Lord's  promise." 

Lois  was  warming  out  of  her  reserve,  and  possi 
bly  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  a  purpose  that  she  should; 
though  I  think  he  was  quite  earnest  with  his  ques 
tion.  But  certainly  he  was  watching  her,  as  well 
us  listening  to  her. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said.  "  How  will  the  answer  come 
to  me?" 

"  There  is  another  condition,  too.  You  must  be 
quite  willing  to  hear  the  answer." 

"Why?" 

"Else  you  will  be  likely  to  miss  it.     You  know, 


592  NOBODY. 

Mr.  Dillwyn, — you  do  not  know  much  about  house 
keeping  things, — but  I  suppose  you  understand, 
that  if  you  want  to  weigh  anything  truly,  your 
balance  must  hang  even." 

He  smiled. 

«  Well,— then,  Miss  Lois  ?  " 

"The  answer?  It  comes  different  ways.  But  it 
is  sure  to  come.  I  think  one  way  is  this. — You  see 
distinctly  one  thing  you  ought  to  do ;  it  is  not  life- 
work,  but  it  is  one  thing.  That  is  enough  for  one 
step.  You  do  that;  and  then  you  find  that  that 
one  step  has  brought  you  where  you  can  see  a  little 
further,  and  another  step  is  clear.  That  will  do," 
Lois  concluded  smiling;  "step  by  step,  you  will  get 
where  you  want  to  be." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  smiled  too,  thoughtfully,  as  it  were, 
to  himself. 

"  Was  it  50  that  you  went  to  teach  school  at  that 
unlucky  place  V — what  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"It  was  not  unlucky.  Esterbrooke.  Yes,  I  think 
I  went  so." 

"  Was  not  that  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  But  your  work  there  was  broken  up  ?  " 

"  0  but  I  expect  to  go  back  again." 

"  Back !     There  ?     It  is  too  unhealthy." 

"  It  will  not  be  unhealthy,  when  the  railroad  is 
finished." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will,  for  some  time.  And  it  is 
too  rough  a  place  for  you." 

"That  is  why  they  want  me  the  more." 


ABOUT  WORK.  593 

"  Miss  Lois,  you  are  not  strong  enough." 

"  I  am  very  strong !  "  she  answered  with  a  deli 
cious  smile. 

"But  there  is  such  a  thing — don't  you  think  so? 
— as  fitness  of  means  to  ends.  You  would  not  take 
a  silver  spade  to  break  ground  with  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  at  all  a  silver  spade,"  said  Lois.  "  But 
if  I  were ;  suppose  I  had  no  other  ?  " 

"  Then  surely  the  breaking  ground  must  be  left 
to  a  different  instrument." 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Lois,  shaking  her  head. 
u  The  instrument  cannot  choose,  you  know,  where 
it  will  be  employed.  It  does  not  know  enough  for 
that." 

"  But  it  made  you  ill,  that  work." 

"  I  am  recovering  fast." 

"  You  came  to  a  good  place  for  recovering,"  said 
Dillwyn,  glancing  round  the  room,  and  willing  per 
haps  to  leave  the  subject. 

"  Almost  too  good,"  said  Lois.  "  It  spoils  one. 
You  cannot  imagine  the  contrast,  between  what  I 
came  from — and  this.  I  have  been  like  one  in  dream 
land.  And  there  comes  over  me  now  and  then  a 
strange  feeling  of  the  inequality  of  things;  almost 
a  sense  of  wrong ;  the  way  I  am  cared  for  is  so  very 
different  from  the  very  best  and  utmost  that  could 
be  done  for  the  poor  people  at  Esterbrooke.  Think 
of  my  soups  and  creams  and  ices  and  oranges  and 
grapes ! — and  there,  very  often  I  could  not  get  a 
bit  of  fresh  beef  to  make  beef  tea ;  and  what  could  I 
do  without  beef  tea  ?  And  what  would  I  not  have 


594  NOBODY. 

given  for  an  orange  sometimes !  I  do  not  mean, 
for  myself.  I  could  get  hardly  anything  the  sick 
people  really  wanted.  And  here — it  is  like  rain 
from  the  clouds." 

"  Where  does  the  *  sense  of  wrong'  come  in  ?  " 

"It  seems  as  if  things  need  not  be  so  unequal." 

"  And  what  does  your  silver  spade  expect  to  do 
there  ?  " 

"Don't  say  that!  I  have  no  silver  spade.  But 
just  so  far  as  I  could  help  to  introduce  better  ways 
and  a  knowledge  of  better  things,  the  inequality 
would  be  made  up — or  on  the  way  to  be  made 
up." 

"  What  refining  measures  are  you  thinking  of? 
— beside  your  own  presence  and  example." 

"  I  was  certainly  not  thinking  of  that.  Why,  Mr. 
Dillwyn,  knowledge  itself  is  refining;  and  then,  so 
is  comfort;  and  I  could  help  them  to  more  comfort, 
in  their  houses,  and  in  their  meals.  I  began  to  teach 
them  singing,  which  has  a  great  effect;  and  I  car 
ried  all  the  pictures  I  had  with  me.  Most  of  all, 
though,  to  bring  them  to  a  knowledge  of  Bible 
truth  is  the  principal  thing  and  the  surest  way. 
The  rest  is  really  in  order  to*  that." 

"  Wasn't  it  very  hard  work  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Lois.  "Some  things  were  hard;  but 
not  the  work." 

"  Because  you  like  it." 

"Yes.  0  Mr.,. Dillwyn,  there  is  nothing  pleas- 
anter  than  to  do  one's  work,  if  it  is  work  one  is 
sure  God  has  given." 


ABOUT  WORK.  595 

"  That  must  be  because  you  love  Him,"  said  Phil 
ip  gravely.  "Yet  I  understand,  that  in  the  univer 
sal  adjustment  of  things,  the  instrument  and  its 
proper  work  must  agree."  He  was  silent  a  minute, 
and  Lois,  did  not  break  the  pause.  If  he  would 
think,  let  him  think,  was  her  meaning.  Then  he 
began  again. 

"  There  are  different  ways.  What  would  you  think 
of  a  man  who  spent  his  whole  life  in  painting  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  think  that  could  be  anybody's 
proper  life-work." 

"  I  think  it  was  truly  his,  and  he  served  God  in  it." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  " 

UA  Catholic  monk,  in  the  fifteenth  century." 

"  What  did  he  paint  ?     What  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  His  name  was  Fra  Angelico — by  reason  of  the 
angelic  character  which  belonged  to  him  and  to  his 
paintings;  otherwise  Fra  Giovanni;  he  was  a  monk 
in  a  Dominican  cloister.  He  entered  the  convent 
when  he  was  twenty  years  old;  and  from  that  time, 
till  he  was  sixty-eight,  he  served  God  and  his  gen 
eration  by  painting." 

Lois  looked  somewhat  incredulous.  Mr.  Dillwyn 
here  took  from  one  of  his  pockets  a  small  case, 
opened  it  and  put  it  in  her  hands.  It  was  an  ex 
cellent  copy  of  a  bit  of  Fra  Angelico's  work. 

"That,"  he  said  as  he  gave  it  her,  "is  the  head 
of  one  of  Fra  Angelico's  angels,  from  a  group  in  a 
large  picture.  I  had  this  copy  made  for  myself 
some  years  ago — at  a  time  when  I  only  dimly  felt 
what  now  I  am  beginning  to  understand." 


596  NOBODY. 

Lois  scarce  heard  what  he  said.  From  the  time 
she  received  the  picture  in  her  hands  she  lost  all 
thought  of  everything  else.  The  unearthly  beauty 
and  purity,  the  heavenly  devotion  and  joy,  seized 
her  heart  as  with  a  spell.  The  delicate  lines  of 
the  face,  the  sweet  colouring,  the  finished,  perfect 
handling,  were  most  admirable;  but  it  was  the 
marvellous  spiritual  love  and  purity  which  so  took 
possession  of  Lois.  Her  eyes  filled  and  her  cheeks 
flushed.  It  was,  so  far  as  painting  could  give  it, 
the  truth  of  heaven;  and  that  goes  to  the  heart 
of  the  human  creature  who  perceives  it.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  was  watching  her,  meanwhile,  arid  could 
look  safely,  secure  that  Lois  was  in  no  danger 
of  finding  it  out;  and  while  she,  very  likely,  was 
thinking  of  the  distance  between  that  angel  face 
and  her  own,  Philip  on  the  other  hand  was  follow 
ing  the  line  of  his  sister's  thought,  and  tracing 
the  fancied  likeness.  Like  one  of  Fra  Angelico's 
angels !  Yes,  there  was  the  same  sort  of  grave 
purity,  of  unworldly  if  not  unearthly  spiritual 
beauty.  Truly  the  rapt  joy  was  not  there,  nor  the 
unshadowed  triumph;  but  love — and  innocence, — 
and  humility, — and  truth;  and  not  a  stain  of  the 
world  upon  it.  Lois  said  not  one  word,  but  looked 
and  looked,  till  at  last  she  tendered  the  picture 
back  to  its  owner. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  keep  it,"  said  he, 
"and  shew  it  to  your  sister." 

He  brought  it  to  have  Madge  see  it !  thought 
Lois.  Aloud — 


ABOUT  WORK.  597 

"No — she  would  enjoy  it  a  great  deal  more  if 
you  shewed  it  to  her; — then  you  could  tell  her 
about  it." 

"I  think  you  could  explain  it  better." 

As  he  made  no  motion  to  take  back  the  picture, 
Lois  drew  in  her  hand  again  and  took  a  further 
view.  How  beautiful  was  the  fair,  bright,  rapt, 
blissful  face  of  the  angel ! — as  if  indeed  he  were 
looking  at  heaven's  glories. 

"  Did  he — did  the  painter — always  paint  like 
this?" 

"Always,  I  believe.  He  improved  in  his  manner 
as  he  went  on;  he  painted  better  and  better;  but 
from  youth  to  age  he  was  incessantly  doing  the 
one  thing,  serving  God  with  his  pencil.  He  never 
painted  for  money;  that  is,  not  for  himself;  the 
money  went  into  the  church's  treasury.  He  did 
not  work  for  fame;  much  of  his  best  work  is  upon 
the  walls  of  the  monks'  cells,  where  few  would  see 
it.  He  would  not  receive  office.  He  lived  upon 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and  prayer ;  and  the 
one  business  of  his  life  was  to  shew  forth  to  the 
world  what  he  believed,  in  such  beautiful  wise 
that  they  might  be  won  to  believe  it  too." 

"  That  is  exactly  the  work  we  have  to  do, — 
everybody,"  said  Lois,  lifting  her  eyes  with  a 
bright  light  in  them.  "J  mean,  everybody  that 
is  a  Christian.  That  is  it; — to  shew  forth  Christ, 
and  in  such  wise  that  men  may  see  and  believe 
in  him  too.  That  is  the  word  in  Philippians — • 
'shining  as  lights  in  the  world,  holding  forth  tho 


598  NOBODY. 

word  of  life.'  I  did  not  know  it  was  possible  to 
do  it  in  painting — but  I  see  it  is.  0  thank  you 
for  shewing  me  this ! — it  has  done  me  good." 

Her  eyes  were  glistening  as  she  gave  him  the 
picture  again.  Philip  put  it  in  security,  in  silence, 
and  rose  up. 

"Well — "  said  he,  "now  I  will  go  and  hear 
somebody  p'ay  the  Carnival  of  Venice,  as  if  it 
were  all  rattle  and  no  fun." 

"  Is  that  the  way  they  play  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  way  some  people  play  it.     Good  night." 

The  door  closed  after  him,  and  Lois  sat  down 
alone  before  the  fire  again. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

CHOOSING    A    WIFE. 

SHE  did  not  open  her  Bible  to  go  on  with  the  in 
vestigation  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  broken  off.  Now 
that  he  had  just  been  with  her  in  proper  person,  an 
instinct  of  scared  modesty  fled  from  the  question 
whether  or  no  he  were  a  man  whom  a  Christian 
woman  might  marry.  What  was  it  to  her?  Lois 
said  to  herself;  what  did  it  concern  her,  whether 
such  a  marriage  were  permissible  or  no?  Such  a 
question  would  never  come  to  her  for  decision.  To 
Madge,  perhaps?  But  now  the  other  question  did 
ask  for  consideration ; — why  she  winced  at  the  idea 
that  it  might  come  to  Madge?  Madge  did  not 
share  her  sister's  scruple;  Madge  had  riot  made 
the  promise  Lois  had  made;  if  Mr.  Dillwyn  asked 
her,  she  would  accept  him,  Lois  had  little  doubt. 
Perhaps  he  would  ask  her;  and  why,  why,  did  Lois 
wish  he  would  not?  For  she  perceived  that  the 
idea  gave  her  pain.  Why  should  it  give  her 
pain?  For  herself,  the  thing  was  a  fixed  fact; 
whatever  the  Bible  said — and  she  knew  pretty  well 
what  it  said — for  her,  such  a  marriage  was  an  im- 

'599) 


600  NOBODY. 

possibility.  And  why  should  she  think  about  it  at 
all?  nobody  else  was  thinking  about  it.  Fra  An- 
gelico's  angel  came  back  to  her  mind;  the  clear,  un 
shadowed  eyes,  the  pure,  glad  face,  the  separate- 
ness  from  all  earth's  passions  or  pleasures,  the  lofty 
exaltation  above  them.  So  ought  she  to  be.  And 
then,  while  this  thought  was  warmest,  came,  shut 
ting  it  out,  the  image  of  Mr.  Dillwyn  at  the  music 
party;  what  he  was  doing  there,  how  he  would  look 
and  speak,  how  Madge  would  enjoy  his  attentions 
and  everything;  and  Lois  suddenly  felt  as  if  she 
herself  were  very  much  alone.  Not  merely  alone 
now,  to-night;  she  had  chosen  this  and  liked  it; 
(did  she  like  it?) — not  now,  but  all  through  her 
life.  It  suddenly  seemed  to  Lois  as  if  she  were 
henceforth  to  be  always  alone.  Madge  would  no 
doubt  marry — somebody;  and  there  was  no  home 
and  nobody  to  make  home  for  Lois.  She  had  never 
thought  of  it  before,  but  now  she  seemed  to  see  it 
all  quite  clearly.  Mrs.  Barclay's  work  had  been,  to 
separate  her,  in  a  certain  way,  from  her  family  arid 
her  surroundings.  They  fitted  together  no  longer. 
Lois  knew  what  they  did  not  know;  she  had  tastes 
which  they  did  not  share,  but  which  now  were  be 
come  part  of  her  being;  the  society  in  which  she 
had  moved  aM  her  life  till  two  years,  or  three  years, 
ago,  could  no  longer  content  her.  It  was  not  in 
animate  nature,  her  garden,  her  spade  and  her 
wheelbarrow,  that  seemed  distasteful;  Lois  could 
have  gone  into  that  work  again  with  all  her  heart, 
and  thought  it  no  hardship;  it  was  the  mental  level 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  601 

at  which  the  people  lived;  the  social  level,  in  houses, 
tables,  dress  and  amusements  and  manner;  the  aes 
thetic  level  of  beauty  and  grace  and  fitness,  or  at 
least  the  perception  of  them.  Lois  pondered  and 
revolved  this  all  till  she  began  to  grow  rather 
dreary. "  Think  of  the  Esterbrooke  school,  and  of  be 
ing  alone  there!  Rough,  rude,  coarse  boys  and 
girls;  untaught,  untamed,  ungovernable,  except  by 
an  uncommon  exertion  of  wisdom  and  will;  long 
days  of  hard  labour,  nights  of  common  food  and 
sleep,  with  no  delicate  arrangements  for  either,  and 
social  refreshment  utterly  out  of  the  question.  And 
Madge  away;  married,  perhaps,  and  travelling  in 
Europe,  and  seeing  Fra  Angelico's  paintings.  Then 
the  angel's  face  recurred  to  Lois,  and  she  pulled 
herself  up.  The  angel's  face,  and  the  painter's 
history,  both  confronted  her.  On  one  hand,  the 
seraphic  purity  and  joy  of  a  creature  who  knew  no 
will  but  God's  will;  on  the  other  hand,  the  quiet, 
patient  life  which  had  borne  such  fruits.  Four 
hundred  years  ago,  Fra  Angelico  painted;  and  ever 
since  his  work  had  been  bearing  witness  to  God's 
truth  and  salvation;  was  even  at  that  minute  teach 
ing  and  admonishing  herself.  What  did  it  signify, 
just  how  her  own  work  should  be  done,  if  only  it  were 
like  work  ?  What  matter  whether  rough  or  smooth, 
alone  or  in  company?  Where  the  service  is  to  be 
done,  there  the  Master  puts  his  servant;  what  the 
service  is,  He  knows;  for  the  servant,  all  that  he 
has  to  take  care  of  is,  that  step  by  step  he  follow 
where  he  is  led,  and  everywhere  and  by  all  means 


602  NOBODY. 

in  his  power  that  he  shew  forth  Christ  to  men. 
Then,  something  like  that  angel's  security  would 
be  with  him  all  the  way,  and  something  like  that 
angel's  joy  be  at  the  end  of  it.  The  little  picture 
had  helped  and  comforted  Lois  amazingly,  and  she 
went  to  bed  with  a  heart  humbled  and  almost 
contented. 

She  went,  however,  in  good  time,  before  Madge 
could  be  returned  home ;  she  did  not  want  to  hear 
the  outflow  of  description  and  expatiation  which 
might  be  expected.  And  Madge  indeed  found  her 
so  seemingly  sleepy  that  she  was  forced  to  give 
up  talking  and  come  to  bed  too.  But  all  Lois  had 
gained  was  a  respite.  The  next  morning  as  soon 
as  they  were  awake,  Madge  began. 

"Lois,  we  had  a  grand  time  last  night!  You 
were  so  stupidly  asleep  when  I  came  home,  I 
couldn't  tell  you.  We  had  a  beautiful  time! 
0  Lois,  Mrs.  Burrage's  house  is  just  magnificent ! " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  The  floors  are  all  laid  in  patterns  of  different 
coloured  woods — a  sort  of  mosaic — " 

*'  Parquetry." 

"What? — I  call  it  mosaic,  with  centre  pieces 
and  borders, — O  elegant!  And  they  are  smooth 
and  polished;  and  then  carpets  and  rugs  of  all 
sorts  are  laid  about;  and  it's  most  beautiful.  She 
has  got  one  of  those  Persian  carpets  she  was  tell 
ing  about,  Lois." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"And  the  walls  are  all  great  mirrors,  or  else 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.-  603 

there  is  the  richest  sort  of  drapery — curtains  or 
hangings;  and  the  prettiest  painted  walls.  And 
0  Lois,  the  flowers  ! — :' 

"  Where  were  they  ?  " 

"  Everywhere  !  On  tables,  and  little  shelves  on 
the  wall—" 

"  Brackets." 

"  0  well ! — shelves  they  are,  call  them  what  you 
like;  and  stands  of  plants  and  pots  of  plants — the 
whole  place  was  sweet  with  the  smell  and  green 
with  the  leaves,  and  brilliant  with  the  flowers — " 

"  Seems  to  have  been  brilliant  generally." 

"  So  it  was,  just  brilliant,  with  all  that,  and  with 
the  lights  and  with  the  people." 

"  Were  the  people  brilliant  too  ?  " 

"And  the  playing." 

"0— the  playing!" 

"Everybody  said  so.  It  wasn't  like  Mrs.  Bar 
clay's  playing." 

"What  was  it  like?" 

"  It  looked  like  very  hard  work,  to  me.  My 
dear,  I  saw  the  drops  of  sweat  standing  on  one 
man's  forehead; — he  had  been  playing  a  pretty 
long  piece,"  Madge  added  by  way  of  accounting 
for  things.  "I  never  saw  anything  like  it,  in 
all  my  life!" 

"  Like  what  ? — sweat  on  a  man's  forehead  ?  " 

"Like  the  playing.     Don't  be  ridiculous." 

"It  is  not  I,"  said  Lois,  who  meanwhile  had 
risen  and  was  getting  dressed.  Madge  was  doing 
the  same,  talking  all  the  while.  "  So  the  play- 


604  NOBODY. 

ing   was   something   to   be  seen.     What  was   the 
singing?" 

Madge  stood  still,  comb  in  hand.  "  I  don't  know ! " 
she  said  gravely.  Lois  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  Well  I  don't,"  Madge  went  on.  "  It  was  so 
queer,  some  of  it,  I  did  not  know  which  way 
to  look.  Some  of  it  was  regular  yelling,  Lois;  and 
if  people  are  going  to  yell,  I'd  rather  have  it  out 
of  doors.  But  one  man — I  think  he  thought  he 
was  doing  it  remarkably  well — the  goings  up  and 
down  of  his  voice — " 

"  Cadences — " 

"Well,  the  cadences  if  you  choose;  they  made 
me  think  of  nothing  but  the  tones  of  the  lions 
arid  other  beasts  in  the  menagerie.  Don't  you 
know  how  they  roar  up  and  down?  first  softly 
and  then  loud?  I  had  everything  in  the  world 
to  do  not  to  laugh  out  downright.  He  was  sing 
ing  something  meant  to  be  very  pathetic;  and  it 
was  absolutely  killing." 

"It  was  not  all  like  that,  I  suppose." 

"No.  There  was  some  I  liked.  But  nothing 
one  half  so  good  as  your  singing  a  hymn,  Lois. 
I  wish  you  could  have  been  there  to  give  them 
one.  Only  you  could  not  sing  a  hymn  in  such 
a  place." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why  because !     It  would  be  out  of  place." 

"  I  would  not  go  anywhere  where  a  hymn  would 
be  out  of  place." 

"  That's  nonsense.     But  0,  how  the  people  were 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  605 

dressed,  Lois!  Brilliant! — you  may  well  say  so. 
It  took  away  my  breath  at  first" 

"You  got  it  again,  I  hope?" 

"Yes.  But  0  Lois,  it  is  nice  to  have  plenty 
of  money." 

"  Well,  yes.  And  it  is  nice  not  to  have  it — if 
the  Lord  makes  it  so." 

"  Makes  what  so  ?  You  are  very  unsympathetic, 
this  morning,  Lois !  But  if  you  had  only  been  there. 

0  Lois,  there  were  one  or  two  fur  rugs — fur  skins 
for  rugs, — the  most  beautiful  things  I  ever  saw. 
One  was  a  leopard's  skin,  with  its  beautiful  spots ; 
the  other  was  white  and  thick  and  fluffy — I  couldn't 
find  out  what  it  was." 

"Bear,  maybe." 

"Bear!     O  Lois — those  two  skins  finished  me! 

1  kept  my  head  for  a  while,  with  all  the  mosaic 
floors  and  rich  hangings  and  flowers  and  dresses, — 
but  those  two  skins  took  away  the  little  sense  I  had 
left.     They  looked  so  magnificent!  so  luxurious." 

"They  are  luxurious,  no  doubt." 

"  Lois,  I  don't  see  why  some  people  should  have 
so  much,  and  others  so  little." 

"The  same  sort  of  question  that  puzzled  David 
once." 

"  Why  should  Mrs.  Burrage  have  all  that,  and 
you  and  I  have  only  yellow  painted  floors  and  rag 
carpets  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  'all  that.'" 

"Don't  you?" 

"No."   * 


606  NOBODY. 

"I  do." 

"Madge,  those  things  do  not  make  people 
happy." 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  so,  Lois.  I  should  like 
just  to  try  once." 

"  How  do  you  like  Mrs.  Burrage  ?  " 

Madge  hesitated  a  trifle. 

"  She  is  pleasant, — pretty  and  clever  and  lively ; 
she  went  flying  about  among  the  people  like  a  but 
terfly,  stopping  a  minute  -here  and  a  minute  there, 
but  I  guess  it  was  not  to  get  honey  but  to  give  it. 
She  was  a  little  honified  to  me,  but  not  much.  I 
don't — think  " — (slowly)  "  she  liked  to  see  her  broth 
er  making  much  of  me." 

Lois  was  silent. 

"He  was  there;  I  didn't  tell  you.  He  came  a 
little  late.  He  said  he  had  been  here,  and  as  he 
didn't  find  us  he  came  on  to  his  sister's." 

"  He  was  here  a  little  while." 

"  So  he  said.  But  he  was  so  good,  Lois !  He 
was  very  good.  He  talked  to  me,  and  told  me 
about  things,  and  took  care  of  me,  and  gave  me 
supper.  I  tell  you,  I  thought  madam  his  sister 
looked  a  little  askance  at  him  once  or  twice.  I 
Jcnoiv  she  tried  to  get  him  away." 

Lois  again  made  no  answer. 

"  Why  should  she,  Lois  ?  " 

"  Maybe  you  were  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  think  I  was  mistaken.  But  why  should 
she,  Lois?" 

"  Madge,  dear,  you  know  what  I  told  you." 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  607 

"  About  what  ?  " 

"About  that; — people's  feelings.  You  and  I  do 
not  belong  to  this  gay,  rich  world;  we  are  not 
rich,  and  we  are  not  fashionable,  and  we  do  not 
live  as  they  live,  in  any  way ;  and  they  do  not  want 
us;  why  should  they  ?  " 

"  We  should  not  hurt  them ! "  said  Madge  in 
dignantly. 

"  Nor  be  of  any  use  or  pleasure  to  them." 

"There  isn't  a  girl  among  them  all  to  compare 
with  you,  as  far  as  looks  go." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  will  not  help  the  matter,"  said 
Lois  smiling ;  but  then  she  added  with  earnest  and 
almost  anxious  eagerness, 

"  Madge,  dear,  don't  think  about  it !  Happiness 
is  not  there ;  and  what  God  gives  us  is  best.  Best 
for  you  and  best  for  me.  Don't  you  wish  for  riches ! 
— or  for  anything  we  haven't  got.  What  we  have 
to  do,  is  to  live  so  as  to  shew  forth  Christ  and  his 
truth  before  men." 

"  Very  few  do  that,"  said  Madge  shortly. 

"  Let  us  be  some  of  the  few." 

"I'd  like  to  do  it  in  high  places,  then,"  said 
Madge.  "  0  you  needn't  talk,  Lois !  It's  a  great 
deal  nicer  to  have  a  leopard  skin  under  your  feet 
than  a  rag  carpet." 

Lois  could  not  help  smiling,  though  something 
like  tears  was  gathering. 

"And  I'd  rather  have  Mr.  Dillwyn  take  care  of 
me  than  uncle  Tim  Hotchkiss." 

The  laughter  and  the  tears  came  both  more  un 


608  NOBODY. 

mistakeably.  Lois  felt  a  little  hysterical.  She  fin 
ished  dressing  hurriedly,  and  heard  as  little  as  pos 
sible  of  Madge's  further  communications. 

It  was  a  few  hours  later,  that  same  morning,  that 
Philip  Dillwyn  strolled  into  his  sister's  breakfast 
room.  It  was  a  room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  the 
end  of  a  suite;  and  from  it  the  eye  roved  through 
half  drawn  portieres  and  between  rows  of  pillars, 
along  a  vista  of  the  parquetted  floors  Madge  had 
described  to  her  sister;  catching  here  the  glitter 
of  gold  from  a  picture  frame,  and  there  a  gleam  of 
white  from  a  marble  figure,  through  the  half  light 
which  reigned  there.  In  the  breakfast  room  it  was 
bright  day;  and  Mrs.  Burrage  was  finishing  her 
chocolate  and  playing  with  bits  of  dry  toast,  when 
her  brother  came  in.  Philip  had  hardly  exchanged 
greetings  and  taken  his  seat,  when  his  attention 
was  claimed  by  Mrs.  Burrage's  young  son  and  heir, 
who  forthwith  thrust  himself  between  his  uncle's 
knees,  a  bat  in  one  hand,  a  worsted  ball  in  the 
other. 

"  Uncle  Phil,  mamma  says  her  name  usen't  to  be 
Burrage — it  was  your  name  ?  " 

"  That  is  correct." 

"If  it  was  your  name  once,  why  isn't  it  your 
name  now  ?  " 

44  Because  she  changed  it  and  became  Burrage." 

"  What  made  her  be  Burrage  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  deep  question  in  mental  philosophy, 
which  I  am  unable  to  answer,  Chauncey." 

"She  says,  it's  because  she  married  papa." 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  609 

"  Does  not  your  mother  generally  speak  truth  ?" 

Young  Philip  Chauncey  seemed  to  consider  this 
question ;  and  finally  waiving  it,  went  on  pulling 
at  a  button  of  his  uncle's  coat  in  the  energy  of  his 
inquiries. 

"  Uncle  Phil,  you  haven't  got  a  wife  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Why  haven't  you  ?  " 

"An  old  cookery  book  says,  'First  catch  your 
hare.'" 

"  Must  you  catch  your  wife  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"How  do  you  catch  her ? " 

But  the  answer  to  this  most  serious  inquiry  was 
met  by  such  a  burst  of  laughter  on  the  part  of  both 
the  older  persons  in  the  room,  that  Phil  had  to 
wait;  nothing  daunted  however  returned  to  the 
charge. 

"  Uncle  Phil,  if  you  had  a  wife,  what  would  her 
name  be  ?  " 

"  If  ever  I  have  one,  Chauncey,  her  name  will 
be—" 

But  here  the  speaker  had  very  nearly,  in  his  ab 
straction,  brought  out  a  name  that  would,  to  say 
the  least,  have  astonished  his  sister.  He  caught 
himself  up  just  in  time,  and  laughed. 

"  If  ever  I  have  one,  Jier  name  will  be  mine." 

"  I  did  not  know,  last  night,  but  you  had  chosen 
the  lady  to  whom  you  intended  to  do  so  much 
honour,"  his  sister  observed  coolly,  looking  at  him 
across  her  chocolate  cup. 


610  NOBODY. 

"  Or  who  I  hoped  would  do  me  so  much  honour. 
What  did  you  think  of  my  supposed  choice  ?  "  he 
asked  with  equal  coolness. 

"  What  could  I  think,  except  that  you  were  like 
all  other  men — distraught  for  a  pretty  face." 

"One  might  do  worse,"  observed  Philip  in  the 
same  tone,  while  that  of  his  sister  grew  warmer. 

"  Some  men, — but  not  you,  Philip." 

"What  distinguishes  me  from  the  mass?" 

"You  are  too  old  to  be  made  a  fool  of." 

"  Old  enough  to  be  wise,  certainly." 

"  And  you  are  too  fastidious  to  be  satisfied  with 
anything  short  of  perfection ;  and  then  you  fill  too 
high  a  position  in  the  world  to  marry  a  girl  who  is 
nobody." 

"  So  ?  " — said  Philip,  using,  which  it  always 
vexed  his  sister  to  have  him  do,  the  half  question 
ing,  half  admiring,  wholly  unattackable  German 
expression.  "  Then  the  person  alluded  to  seemed 
to  you  something  short  of  perfection  ?  " 

"She  is  handsome,"  returned  his  sister;  "she 
has  a  very  handsome  face;  anybody  can  see  that; 
but  that  does  not  make  her  your  equal." 

"Humph! — You  suppose  I  can  find  that  rare 
bird,  my  equal,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Not  there." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  simply  nobody." 

"  Seems  to  say  a  good  deal,"  responded  Philip. 
"  I  do  not  know  just  what  it  says." 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do !     And  she  is  un- 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  611 

formed;  unused  to  all  the  ways  of  the  world;  a 
mere  novice  in  society." 

"Part  of  that  is  soon  mended,"  said  Philip  eas 
ily.  "  I  heard  your  uncle,  or  Burrage's  uncle,  old 
Colonel  .Chauncey,  last  night  declaring  that  there 
is  not  a  girl  in  the  city  that  has  such  manners  as 
one  of  the  Miss  Lothrops;  manners  of  'mingled 
grace  and  dignity,'  he  said." 

"That  was  the  other  one." 

"That  was  the  other  one."     • 

"  She  has  been  in  New  York  before  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  That  was  the  one  that  Tom  Caruthers  was  be 
witched  with  ?  " 

"  Have  you  heard  that  story?"  said  Mr.  Dillwyn 
dryly. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  hear  it?" 

"  No  reason,  that  I  know.  It  is  one  of  the  *  ways 
of  the  world '  you  referred  to,  to  tell  everything  of 
everybody, — especially  when  it  is  not  true." 

"  Isn't  that  story  true  ?  " 

"  It  has  no  inherent  improbability.  Tom  is  open 
to  influences,  and — "  he  stopped. 

"1  know  it  is  true;  for  Mrs.  Caruthers  told  me 
herself." 

"  Poor  Tom  !  "— 

"  It  was  very  good  for  him,  that  the  thing  was 
put  an  end  to.  But  you — you  should  fly  at  higher 
game  than  Tom  Caruthers  can  strike,  Philip." 

"Thank  you.  There  was  no  occasion  for  your 
special  fear  last  night.  I  am  in  no  danger  there. 


612  NOBODY. 

But  I  know  a  man,  Jessie, — a  man  I  think  much 
of,  too, — who  is  very  much  drawn  to  one  of  those 
ladies.  He  has  confessed  as  much  to  me.  What 
advice  shall  I  give  him  ?  He  is  a  man  that  can 
please  himself;  he  has  abundant  means,  and  no 
ties  to  encumber  him." 

"  Does  he  hold  as  high  a  position  as  you  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

"  And  may  pretend  to  as  much  ?  " 

"He  is  not  a  man  of  pretensions.  But  taking 
your  words  as  they  mean,  I  should  say,  yes." 

"  Is  it  any  use  to  offer  him  advice  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  generally  hears  mine — if  he  is  not 
too  far  gone  in-  something." 

"Ah!— Well,  Philip,  tell  him  to  think  what  he 
is  doing." 

"01  have  put  that  before  him." 

"  He  would  make  himself  a  great  goose." 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  some  arguments 
wherewith  to  substantiate  that  prophecy." 

"  He  can  see  the  whole  for  himself.  Let  him 
think  of  the  fitness  of  things.  Imagine  such  a  girl 
set  to  preside  over  his  house — a  house  like  this,  for 
instance.  Imagine  her  helping  him  receive  his 
guests;  sitting  at  the  head  of  his  table.  -Fancy 
it;  a  girl  who  has  been  accustomed  to  sanded 
floors,  perhaps,  and  paper  window  shades,  and  who 
has  fed  on  pumpkins  and  pork  all  her  life." 

Mr.  Dillwyn  smiled,  as  his  eye  roved  over  what 
of  his  sister's  house  was  visible  from  where  he  sat, 
and  he  remembered  the  meal  times  in  Shampu- 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  613 

ashuh;  he  smiled,  but  his  eye  had  more  thought  in 
it  than  Mrs.  Burrage  liked.  She  was  watching  him. 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  sort  of  a  house  is  in  ques 
tion  in  the  present  case,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Per 
haps  it  .would  not  be  a  house  like  this." 

"  It  ought  to  be  a  house  like  this." 

"  Isn't  that  an  open  question  ?  " 

"No!  I  am  supposing  that  this  man,  your 
friend, —  Do  I  know  him?" 

"  Do  you  not  know  everybody  ?  But  I  have  no 
permission  to  disclose  his  name." 

"And  I  do  not  care  for  it,  if  he  is  going  to  make 
a  mesalliance;  a  marriage  beneath  him.  Such  mar 
riages  turn  out  miserably.  A  woman  not  fit  for 
society  drags  her  husband  out  of  it ;  a  woman  who 
has  not  refined  tastes  makes  him  gradually  coarse; 
a  woman  with  no  connections  keeps  him  from  ris 
ing  in  life ;  if  she  is  without  education,  she  lets  all 
the  best  part  of  him  go  to  waste.  In  short,  if  he 
marries  a  nobody  he  becomes  nobody  too;  parts 
with  all  his  antecedents,  and  buries  all  his  advan 
tages.  It's  social  ruin,  Philip!  it  is  just  ruin." 

"  If  this  man  only  does  not  prefer  the  bliss  of 
ruining  himself!" — said  her  brother,  rising  and 
lightly  stretching  himself.  Mrs.  Burrage  looked 
at  him  keenly  and  doubtfully. 

"  There  is  no  greater  mistake  a  man  can  make, 
than  to  marry  beneath  him,"  she  went  on. 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  too." 

"It  sinks  him  below  his  level;  it  is  a  weight 
round  his  neck ;  people  afterwards  when  he  is  men 


G14  NOBODY. 

tioned  say, — iHe  married  such  a  one,  you  know; ' 
and,  'Didrit  he  marry  unfortunately?' — He  is  like 
depreciated  coin.  It  kills  him,  Philip,  politically." 

"  And  fashionably." 

"  0  fashionably !  of  course." 

"What's  left  to  a  man,  when  he  ceases  to  be 
fashionable ! " 

"Well,  of  course  he  chooses  a  new  set  of  as 
sociates." 

"  But  if  Tom  Caruthers  had  married  as  you  say 
he  wanted  to  marry,  his  wife  would  have  come  at 
once  into  his  circle  and  made  one  of  it." 

"  Provided  she  could  hold  the  place." 

"  Of  that  I  have  no  doubt." 

"It  was  a  great  gain  to  Tom  that  he  missed." 

"  The  world  has  odd  balances  to  weigh  loss  and 
gain  !  "  said  Philip. 

"  Why  Philip,  in  addition  to  everything  else, 
these  girls  are  religious: — not  after  a  reasonable 
fashion,  you  know,  but  puritanical;  prejudiced,  and 
narrow,  and  stiff." 

"  How  do  you  know  all  that  ?  " 

*'  From  that  one's  talk  last  night.  And  from 
Mrs.  Wishart." 

"  Did  she  say  they  were  puritanical  ?  " 

"Yes.  0  yes!  they  are  stiff  about  dancing  and 
cards;  and  I  had  nearly  laughed  last  night  at  the 
way  Miss — what's  her  name  ? — opened  her  eyes  at 
me  when  I  spoke  of  the  theatre." 

"  She  does  not  know  what  the  theatre  is,"  said 
Philip. 


CHOOSING  A  WIFE.  615 

"She  thinks  she  does." 

"  She  does  not  know  the  half." 

"  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Bui-rage  severely  and  discon 
tentedly,  "  you  are  not  agreeing  with  me." 

"  Not  entirely,  sister." 

"You  are  as  fond  of  the  theatre,  or  of  the 
opera,  as  anybody  I  know." 

"I  never  saw  a  decent  opera  in  my  life." 

"Philip!" 

"Nor  did  you." 

"  How  ridiculous !  You  have  been  going  to  the 
opera  all  your  life,  and  the  theatre  too,  in  half  a 
dozen  different  countries." 

"Therefore  I  claim  to  know  of  what  I  speak. 
And  if  I  had  a  wife, — "  he  paused.  His  thoughts 
made  two  or  three  leaps;  the  vision  of  Lois's  sweet, 
pure  dignity  came  before  him,  and  words  were 
wanting. 

"What  if  you  had  a  wife?"  asked  his  sister 
impatiently. 

"I  would  rather  she  would  be  anything  but  a 
*  fast '  woman." 

"  She  needn't  be  *  fast ' ;  but  she  needn't  be  pre 
cise,  either." 

There  WHS  something  in  Philip's  air  or  his  si 
lence  which  provoked  Mrs.  Burrage.  She  went 
on  with  some  heat  and  defiantly. 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  religion,  in  a  proper 
way.  I  always  teach  Chauncey  to  make  the 
responses." 

"Make  them  yourself?" 


616  NOBODY. 

"Of  course." 

"  Do  you  mean  them  ?  " 

"  Mean  them  !— " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  When 
you  have  said,  'Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  mis 
erable  sinners ' — did  you  feel  guilty?  or  miserable  ?  " 

"  Miserable !  "— 

"  Yes.     Did  you  feel  miserable  ?  " 

"  Philip,  I  have  no  idea  what  you  are  driving 
at,  unless  you  are  defending  these  two  precise, 
puritanical  young  country  women." 

"  A  little  of  that,"  he  said  smiling,  "  and  a  little 
of  something  else." 

He  had  risen,  as  if  to  go.  His  sister  looked  at 
him,  vexed  and  uncertain.  She  was  proud  of  her 
brother,  she  admired  him,  as  rn.ost  people  did  who 
knew  Mr.  Dillwyn.  Suddenly  she  changed  her  tac 
tics;  rose  up,  and  coming  to  him  laid  both  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders  so  that  she  could  raise  herself  up 
to  kiss  him. 

"Don't  you  go  and  be  foolish!"  she  said.  "I 
will  forgive  your  friend,  Philip,  but  I  will  not  for 
give  you ! " 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DUTY. 

THE  days  of  December  went  by.  Lois  was  her 
self  again,  in  health ;  and  nothing  was  in  the 
way  of  Madge's  full  enjoyment  of  New  York  and 
its  pleasures,  so  she  enjoyed  them  to  the  full.  She 
went  wherever  Mrs.  Wishart  would  take  her.  That 
did  not  involve  any  very  outrageous  dissipation,  for 
Mrs.  Wishart,  though  fond  of  society,  liked  it  best 
in  moderation.  Moderate  companies  and  moderate 
hours  suited  her.  However,  Madge  had  enough  to 
content  her  new  thirst  for  excitement  and  variety, 
especially  as  Mr.  Dillwyn  continually  came  in  to 
fill  up  gaps  in  her  engagements.  He  took  her  to 
drive,  or  to  see  various  sights,  which  for  the  coun 
try  bred  girl  were  full  of  enchantment;  and  he  came 
to  the  house  constantly  on  the  empty  evenings. 

Lois  queried  again  and  again  what  brought  him 
there?  Madge  it  must'be;  it  could  hardly  be  the 
society  of  his  old  friend  Mrs.  Wishart.  It  was  not 
her  society  that  he  sought.  He  was  general  in  his 
attentions,  to  be  sure;  but  he  played  chess  with 

'<J17\ 


618  NOBODY. 

Madge,  lie  accompanied  Madge's  singing,  he  helped 
Madge  in  her  French  reading  and  Italian  pronun 
ciation,  and  took  Madge  out.  He  did  none  of  these 
things  with  Lois.  Truly,  Lois  had  been  asked,  and 
would  not  go  out  either  alone  or  with  her  sister 
in  Mr.  Dillwyn's  carriage  or  in  Mr.  Dillwyn's  con 
voy.  And  she  had  been  challenged,  and  invariably 
declined,  to  sing  with  them ;  and  she  did  not  want 
to  learn  the  game  of  chess,  and  took  no  help  from 
anybody  in  her  studies.  Indeed  Lois  kept  herself 
persistently  in  the  background,  and  refused  to  ac 
company  her  friends  to  any  sort  of  parties ;  and  at 
home,  though  she  must  sit  down  stairs  in  the  even 
ing,  she  withdrew  from  the  conversation  as  much 
as  she  could. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart,  much  vexed  at 
last,  "you  do  not  think  it  is  ivicked  to  go  into 
society,  I  hope?" 

"  Not  for  you.  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  right 
for  me." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?     Is  this  Puritanism  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Lois  smiling. 

"  She  is  a  regular  Puritan,  though,"  said  Madge. 

"  It  isn't  that,"  Lois  repeated.  "I  like  going  out 
among  people  as  well  as  Madge  does.  I  am  afraid 
I  might  like  it  too  well." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  too  well '  ?  "  demanded 
her  protectress,  a  little  angrily. 

"  More  than  would  be  good  for  me.  Just  think, 
— in  a  little  while  I  must  go  back  to  Esterbrooke 
and  teaching;  don't  you  see,  I  had  better  not  get 


DUTY.  619 

myself  entangled  with  what  would  unfit  me  for 
my  work  ?  " 

"Nonsense!     That  is  not  your  work." 

"  You  are  never  going  back  to  that  horrid  place ! " 
exclaimed  Madge. 

But  they  both  knew,  from  the  manner  of  Lois's 
quiet  silence,  that  their  positions  would  not  be 
maintained. 

"  There's  the  more  reason,  if  you  are  going  back 
there  by  and  by,  why  you  should  take  all  the  ad 
vantage  you  can  of  the  present,"  Mrs.  Wishart 
added.  Lois  gave  her  a  sweet  grateful  look,  ac 
knowledging  her  tenderness,  but  not  granting  her 
conclusions.  She  got  away  from  the  subject  as 
soon  as  she  could.  The  question  of  the  sisters' 
return  home  had  already  been  broached  by  Lois; 
received  however  by  Mrs.  Wishart  with  such  con 
tempt  and  by  Madge  with  such  utter  disfavour, 
that  Lois  found  the  point  could  not  be  carried;  at 
least  not  at  that  time;  and  then  winter  began  to 
set  in,  and  she  could  find  no  valid  reason  for  mak 
ing  the  move  before  it  should  be  gone  again,  Mrs. 
Wishart's  intention  being  unmistakeable  to  keep 
them  until  spring.  But  how  was  she  going  to 
hold  out  until  spring  ?  Lois  felt  herself  very  un 
comfortable.  She  could  not  possibly  avoid  seeing 
Mr.  Dillwyn  constantly ;,  she  could  not  always  help 
talking  to  him,  for  sometimes  he  would  make  her 
talk;  and  she  was  very  much  afraid  that  she  liked 
to  talk  to  him.  All  the  while  she  was  obliged  to 
see  how  much  attention  he  was  paying  to  Madge, 


620  NOBODY. 

and  it  was  no  secret  how  well  Madge  liked  it;  and 
Lois  was  afraid  to  look  at  her  own  reasons  for  dis 
liking  it.  Was  it  merely  because  Mr.  Dillwyn  was 
a  man  of  the  world,  and  she  did  not  want  her  sis 
ter  to  get  entangled  with  him  ?  her  sister  who  had 
made  no  promise  to  her  grandmother,  and  who 
was  only  bound  and  perhaps  would  not  be  bound, 
by  Bible  commands?  Lois  had  never  opened  her 
Bible  to  study  the  point,  since  that  evening 
when  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  interrupted  her.  She  was 
ashamed  to  do  it.  The  question  ought  to  have  no 
interest  for  her. 

So  days  went  by,  and  weeks,  and  the  year  was 
near  at  an  end,  when  the  first  snow  came.  It  had 
held  off  wonderfully,  people  said;  and  now  when 
it  came  it  came  in  earnest.  It  snowed  all  night  and 
all  day;  and  slowly  then  the  clouds  thinned  arid 
parted  and  cleared  away,  and  the  westering  sun 
broke  out  upon  a  brilliant  world. 

Lois  sat  at  her  window,  looking  out  at  it,  and 
chiding  herself  that  it  made  her  feel  sober.  Or 
else,  by  contrast  it  let  her  know  how  sober  she 
was.  The  spectacle  was  wholly  joy-inspiring,  and 
so  she  had  been  wont  to  find  it.  Snow  lying  un 
broken  on  all  the  ground,  in  one  white,  fair  glitter; 
snow  lying  piled  up  on  the  branches  and  twigs 
of  trees,  doubling  them  with  white  coral;  snow 
in  ridges  and  banks  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
river;  and  between,  the  rolling  waters.  Madge 
burst  in. 

"  Isn't  it  glorious  ?  "  said  Lois.     "  Come  here  and 


DUTY.  621 

see  how  black  the  river  is  rolling  between  its  white 
banks." 

"  Black  ?  I  didn't  know  anything  was  black," 
said  Madge.  "  Here  is  Mr.  Dillwyn,  come  to  take 
me  sleigh-riding.  Just  think,  Lois ! — a  sleigh  ride 
in  the  Park ! — 0  I'm  so  glad  I  have  got  my  hood 
done ! " 

Lois  slowly  turned  her  head  round.  "Sleigh 
riding  ?  "  she  said.  "  Are  you  going  sleigh  riding, 
and  with  Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  " 

"Yes  indeed,  why  not?"  said  Madge,  bustling 
about  with  great  activity.  "  I'd  rather  go  with 
him  than  with  anybody  else,  I  can  tell  you.  He 
has  got  his  sister's  horses — Mrs.  Burrage  don't  like 
sleighing — and  Mr.  Burrage  begged  he  would  take 
the  horses  out.  They're  gay,  but  he  knows  how  to 
drive.  0  won't  it  be  magnificent  ?  " 

Lois  looked  at  her  sister  in  silence,  unwilling, 
yet  not  knowing  what  to  object;  while  Madge 
wrapped  herself  in  a  warm  cloak  and  donned  a 
silk  hood  lined  with  cherry  colour,  in  which  she 
was  certainly  something  to  look  at.  No  plainer  at 
tire  nor  brighter  beauty  would  be  seen  among  the 
gay  snow  revellers  that  afternoon.  She  flung  a 
sparkling  glance  at  her  sister  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Don't  be  very  long ! — "  Lois  said. 

"Just  as  long  as  he  likes  to  make  it!"  Madge 
returned.  "  Do  you  think  /  am  going  to  ask  him 
to  turn  about,  before  he  is  ready  ?  Not  I,  I  prom 
ise  you.  Good  bye,  hermit !  " 

Away  she  ran,  and  Lois  turned  again  to  her  win 


622  NOBODY. 

dow,  where  all  the  white  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
become  black.  She  will  marry  him ! — she  was  say 
ing  to  herself.  And  why  should  she  not?  she  has 
made  no  promise.  Jam  bound;  doubly;  what  is  it 
to  me,  what  they  do  ?  Yet  if  not  right  for  me  it  is 
not  right  for  Madge.  Is  the  Bible  absolute  about  it  ? 

She  thought  it  would  perhaps  serve  to  settle  arid 
stay  her  mind  if  she  went  to  the  Bible  with  the 
question  and  studied  it  fairly  out.  She  drew  up  the 
table  with  the  book,  arid  prayed  earnestly  to  be 
taught  the  truth  and  to  be  kept  contented  with  the 
right.  Then  she  opened  at  the  well-known  words 
in  2  Corinthians,  chap.  vi. 

u  Be  ye  not  unequally  yoked  together  with  unbe 
lievers  " — 

"Yoked  together."  That  is,  bound  in  a  bond 
which  obliges  two  to  go  one  way  and  pull  in  one 
draught.  Then  of  course  they  must  go  one  way; 
and  which  way,  will  depend  upon  which  is  strong 
est.  But  cannot  a  good  woman  use  her  influence  to 
induce  a  man  who  is  also  good,  only  not  Christian, 
to  go  the  right  way? 

Lois  pondered  this,  wishing  to  believe  it.  Yet 
there  stood  the  command.  And  she  remembered 
there  are  two  sides  to  influence;  could  not  a  good 
man,  arid  a  pleasant  man,  only  not  Christian,  use 
his  power  to  induce  a  Christian  woman  to  go  the 
wrong  way  ?  How  little  she  would  like  to  displease 
him !  how  willingly  she  would  gratify  him  ! — And 
then  there  stands  the  command.  And  turning  from 
it  to  a  parallel  passage  in  1  Cor.  vii.  39,  she  read 


DUTY.  623 

again  the  directions  for  the  marriage  of  a  Christian 
widow ;  she  is  at  liberty  to  be  married  to  whom  she 
will,  "  only  in  the  Lord."  There  could  be  no  ques 
tion  of  what  is  the  will  of  God  in  this  matter.  And 
in  Deut.  vii.  3,  4,  she  studied  anew  the  reasons  there 
given.  "  Neither  shalt  thou  make  marriages  with 
them;  thy  daughter  thou  shalt  not  give  unto  his 
son,  nor  his  daughter  shalt  thou  take  unto  thy  son. 
For  they  will  turn  away  thy  son  from  following  me, 
that  they  may  serve  other  gods." 

Lois  studied  these  passages  with  I  cannot  say 
how  much  aching  of  heart.  Why  did  her  heart 
ache  ?  It  was  nothing  to  her,  surely ;  she  neither 
loved  nor  was  going  to  love  any  man  to  whom  the 
prohibition  could  apply.  Why  should  she  concern 
herself  with  the  matter?  Madge? —  Well,  Madge 
must  be  the  keeper  of  her  own  conscience;  she 
would  probably  marry  Mr.  Dillwyn ;  and  poor  Lois 
saw  sufficiently  into  the  workings  of  her  own  heart 
to  know  that  she  thought  her  sister  very  happy  in 
the  prospect.  But  then,  if  the  question  of  con 
science  could  be  so  got  over,  why  was  she  trou 
bled?  She  would  not  evade  the  inquiry;  she  forced 
herself  to  make  it ;  and  she  writhed  under  the  pres 
sure  and  the  pain  it  caused  her.  At  last,  thor 
oughly  humbled  and  grieved  and  ashamed,  she 
fled  to  a  woman's  refuge  in  tears  and  a  Christian's 
refuge  in  prayer;  and  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  though  with  some  very  hard  struggles,  gave 
up  every  lingering  thought  and  wish  that  ran 
counter  to  the  Bible  command.  Let  Madge  do 


624  NOBODY. 

what  Madge  thought  right;  she  had  warned  her 
of  the  truth.  Now  her  business  was  with  herself 
and  her  own  action;  and  Lois  made  clean  work  of 
it.  I  cannot  say  she  was  exactly  a  happy  woman 
as  she  went  down  stairs;  but  she  felt  strong  and 
at  peace.  Doing  the  Lord's  will,  she  could  not  be 
miserable ;  with  the  Lord's  presence  she  could  not 
be  utterly  alone ;  anyhow,  she  would  trust  him  and 
do  her  duty  and  leave  all  the  rest. 

She  went  down  stairs  at  last,  for  she  had  spent 
the  afternoon  in  her  own  room,  and  felt  that  she 
owed  it  to  Mrs.  Wishart  to  go  down  and  keep  her 
company.  0  if  Spring  were  but  come !  she  thought 
as  she  descended  the  staircase, — and  she  could  get 
away,  and  take  hold  of  her  work,  and  bring  things 
into  the  old  train!  Spring  was  many  weeks  off 
yet,  and  she  must  do  different  and  harder  work 
first,  she  saw.  She  went  down  to  the  back  draw 
ing  room  and  laid  herself  upon  the  sofa. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Lois?"  was  the  immediate 
question  from  Mrs.  Wishart. 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  only  not  just  vigorous.  How  long 
they  are  gone  !  It  is  growing  late."  , 

"  The  sleighing  is  tempting.  It  is  not  often  we 
have  such  a  chance.  I  suppose  everybody  is  out. 
You  don't  go  into  the  air  enough,  Lois." 

"  I  took  a  walk  this  morning." 

"In  the  snow! — and  came  back  tired.  I  saw  it 
in  your  face.  Such  dreadful  walking  was  enough 
to  tire  you.  I  don't  think  you  half  know  how  to 
take  care  of  yourself. " 


DUTY.  625 

Lois  let  the  charge  pass  undisputed,  and  lay  still. 
The  afternoon  had  waned  and  the  sun  gone  down; 
the  snow  however  made  it  still  light  outside.  But 
that  light  faded  too;  and  it  was  really  evening, 
when  sounds  at  the  front  door  announced  the  re 
turn  of  the  sleighing  party.  Presently  Madge  burst 
in,  rosy  and  gay  as  snow  and  sleigh  bells  could 
make  anybody. 

"It's  glorious!"  she  said.  "0  we  have  been  to 
the  Park  and  all  over.  It's  splendid !  Everybody 
in  the  world  is  out,  and  we  saw  everybody,  and 
some  people  we  saw  two  or  three  times;  and  it's 
like  nothing  in  all  the  world  I  ever  saw  before. 
The  whole  air  is  full  of  sleigh  bells ;  and  the  roads 
are  so  thick  with  sleighs  that  it  is  positively  dan 
gerous." 

"That  must  make  it  very  pleasant!  " — said  Lois 
languidly. 

"0  it  does!  There's  the  excitement,  you  know, 
and  the  skill  of  steering  clear  of  people  that  you 
think  are  going  to  run  over  you.  It's  the  greatest 
fun  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  And  Mr.  Dillwyii  drives 
beautifully." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"And  the  next  piece  of  driving  he  does,  is  to 
drive  you  out." 

"  I  hardly  think  he  will  manage  that." 

"Well,  you'll  see.  Here  he  is.  She  says  she 
hardly  thinks  you  will,  Mr.  Dillwyn.  Now  for  a 
trial  of  power !  " 

Madge  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  her  hood 


G26  NOBODY. 

off,  her  little  plain  cloak  still  round  her ;  eyes  spark 
ling,  cheeks  rosy  with  pleasure  and  frosty  air,  a 
very  handsome  and  striking  figure.  Lois's  eyes 
dwelt  upon  her,  glad  and  sorry  at  once;  but  Lois 
had  herself  in  hand  now  and  was  as  calm  as  the 
other  was  excited.  Then  presently  came  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn,  and  sat  down  beside  her  couch. 

"How  do  you  do,  this  evening?" 

His  manner,  she  noticed,  was  not  at  all  like 
Madge's;  it  was  quiet,  sober,  collected,  gentle; 
sleighing  seemed  to  have  wrought  no  particular 
exhilaration  on  him.  Therefore  it  disarmed  Lois. 
She  gave  her  answer  in  a  similar  tone. 

"Have  you  been  out  to-day  ?" 

"Yes — quite  a  long  walk  this  morning." 

"Now  I  want  you  to  let  me  gire  you  a  short 
drive." 

"0  no,  I  think  not." 

"  Come !  "  said  he.  "  I  may  not  have  another  op 
portunity  to  shew  you  what  you  will  see  to-day; 
and  I  want  you  to  see  it." 

He  did  not  seem  to  use  much  urgency,  and  yet 
there  was  a  certain  insistance  in  his  tone  which 
Lois  felt,  and  which  had  its  effect  upon  her,  as  such 
tones  are  apt  to  do,  even  when  one  does  not  willingly 
submit  to  them.  She  objected  that  it  was  late. 

"0  the  moon  is  up,"  cried  Madge;  "it  won't  be 
any  darker  than  it  is  now." 

"It  will  be  brighter,"  said  Philip. 

"  But  your  horses  must  have  had  enough." 

"Just  enough,"  said  Philip  laughing,  "to  make 


DUTY.  627 

them  go  quietly.  Miss  Madge  will  bear  witness 
they  were  beyond  that  at  first.  I  want  you  to  go 
with  me.  Come,  Miss  Lois  I  We  must  be  home 
before  Mrs.  Wishart's  tea.  Miss  Madge,  give  her 
your  hood  and  cloak ;  that  will  save  time." 

Why  should  she  not  say  no  ?  She  found  it  diffi 
cult,  against  that  something  in  his  tone.  He  was 
more  intent  upon  the  affirmative  than  she  upon  the 
negative.  And  after  all,  why  should  she  say  no  ? 
She  had  fought  her  fight  and  conquered;  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  was  nothing  to  her,  more  than  another  man ; 
unless  indeed  he  were  to  be  Madge's  husband,  and 
then  she  would  have  to  be  on  good  terms  with, 
him.  And  she  had  a  secret  fancy  to  have,  for 
once,  the  pleasure  of  this  drive  with  him.  Why 
not?  just  to  see  how  it  tasted.  I  think  it  went 
with  Lois  at  this  moment  as  in  the  German  story, 
where  a  little  boy  vaunted  himself  to  his  sister  that 
he  had  resisted  the  temptation  to  buy  some  'ripe 
cherries,  and  so  had  saved  his  pennies.  His  sister 
praised  his  prudence  and  firmness.  "But  now, 
dear  Hercules,"  she  went  on,  "  now  that  you  have 
done  right  and  saved  your  pennies,  now,  my 
dear  brother,  you  may  reward  yourself  and  buy 
your  cherries ! " 

Perhaps  it  was  with  some  such  unconscious  re 
coil  from  judgment  that  Lois  acted  now.  At  any 
rate,  she  slowly  rose  from  her  sofa,  and  Madge, 
rejoicing,  threw  off  her  cloak  and  put  it  round  her, 
and  fastened  its  ties.  Then  Mr.  Dillwyn  himself 
took  the  hood  and  put  it  on  her  head,  and  tied  the 


628  NOBODY. 

strings  under  her  chin.  The  start  this  gave  her 
almost  made  Lois  repent  of  her  decision;  he  was 
looking  into  her  face  and  his  fingers  were  touch 
ing  her  cheek,  and  the  pain  of  it  was  more  than 
Lois  had  bargained  for.  No,  she  thought,  she  had 
better  not  gone ;  but  it  was  too  late  now  to  alter 
things.  She  stood  still,  feeling  that  thrill  of  pain 
and  pleasure  where  the  one  so  makes  the  other 
keen,  keeping  quiet  and  not  meeting  his  eyes ;  and 
then  he  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  led  her 
down  the  wide,  old-fashioned  staircase.  Something 
in  the  air  of  it  all  brought  to  Lois's  remembrance 
that  Sunday  afternoon  at  Shampuashuh  and  the 
walk  home  in  the  rain ;  and  it  gave  her  a  stricture 
of  heart.  She  put  the  manner  now  to  Madge's  ac 
count,  and  thought  within  herself  that  if  Madge's 
hood  and  cloak  were  beside  him  it  probably  did 
not  matter  who  was  in  them ;  his  fancy  could  do 
the  rest.  Somehow,  she  did  not  want  to  go  to 
drive  as  Madge's  proxy.  However,  there  was  no 
helping  that  now.  She  was  put  into  the  sleigh, 
enveloped  in  the  fur  robes;  Mr.  Dillwyn  took  his 
place  beside  her,  and  they  were  off. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

OFF    AND    ON. 

/CERTAINLY  Madge  had  not  said  too  much,  and 
w  the  .scene  was  like  witchery.  The  sun  was 
down,  but  the  moon  was  up,  near  full,  and  giving 
a  white  illumination  to  the  white  world.  The  snow 
had  fallen  thick,  and  neither  sun  nor  wind  had  as 
yet  made  any  impression  upon  it ;  the  covering  of 
the  road  was  thick  and  well  beaten,  and  on  every 
exposed  level  surface  lay  the  white  treasure  piled 
up.  Every  twig  and  branch  of  the  trees  still  held 
its  burden;  every  roof  was  blanketed;  there  had 
been  no  time  yet  for  smoke  and  soil  to  come  upon 
the  pure  surfaces ;  and  on  all  this  fell  the  pale  moon 
rays  casting  pale  shadows  and  making  the  world 
somehow  look  like  something  better  than  itself. 
The  horses  Mr.  Dillwyn  drore  were  fresh  enough 
yet,  and  stepped  off  gaily,  their  bells  clinking  mu 
sically;  and  other  bells  passed  them  and  sounded 
in  the  nearer  and  further  distance.  Moreover, 
under  this  illumination  all  less  agreeable  features 
of  the  landscape  were  covered  up.  It  was  a  pure 


G30  NOBODY. 

region  of  enchanted  beauty  to  Lois' s  sense,  through 
which  they  drove;  and  she  felt  as  if  a  spell  had 
come  upon  her  too,  and  this  bit  of  experience  were 
no  more  real  than  the  rest  of  it.  It  was  exquisitely 
and  intensely  pleasant;  a  bit  of  life  quite  apart 
and  by  itself,  and  never  to  be  repeated,  therefore 
to  be  enjoyed  all  she  could  while  she  had  it. 
Which  thought  was  not  enjoyment  Was  she  not 
foolish  to  have  come  ? 

"  Are  you  comfortable  ?  "  suddenly  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
voice  came  in  upon  these  musings. 

"  0  perfectly !  "  Lois  answered  with  an  accentu 
ation  between  delight  and  desperation. 

And  then  he  was  silent  again;  and  she  went  on 
with  her  musings,  just  that  word  having  given 
them  a  spur.  How  exquisite  the  scene  was !  how 
exquisite  everything,  in  fact.  All  the  uncomeli- 
nesses  of  a  city  suburb  were  veiled  under  the 
moonlight;  nothing  but  beauty  could  be  seen;  here 
were  points  that  caught  the  light,  and  there  were 
shadows  that  simply  served  to  set  off  the  silvery 
whiteness  of  the  moon  and  the  snow;  what  it  was 
that  made  those  points  of  reflection,  or  what  lay 
beneath  those  soft  shadows,  did  not  appear.  The 
road  was  beaten  smooth,  the  going  was  capital, 
the  horses  trotted  swiftly  and  steadily,  Lois  was 
lapped  in  soft  furs,  and  the  air  which  she  was 
breathing  was  merely  cold  enough  to  exhilarate. 
It  was  perfection.  In  truth  it  was  so  perfect,  and 
Lois  enjoyed  it  so  keenly,  that  she  began  to  be 
vexed  at  herself  for  her  enjoyment.  Why  should 


OFF  AND  ON.  631 

Mr.  Dillwyn  have  got  her  out  ?  all  this  luxury  of 
sense  and  feeling  was  not  good  for  her;  did  not 
belong  to  her;  and  why  should  she  taste  at  all  a 
delight  which  must  be  so  fleeting?  And  what  had 
possessed  him  to  tie  her  hood  strings  for  her,  and  to 
do  it  in"  that  leisurely  way,  as  if  he  liked  it  ?  And 
why  did  she  like  it?  Lois  scolded  and  chid  herself. 
If  he  were  going  to  marry  Madge  ever  so  much, 
that  gave  him  no  right  to  take  such  a  liberty; 
and  she  would  not  allow  him  such  liberties;  she 
would  keep  him  at  a  distance.  But  was  she  not 
going  to  a  distance  herself?  There  would  be  no 
need. 

The  moonlight  was  troubled,  though  by  no  cloud 
on  the  ethereal  firmament;  and  Lois  was  not  quite 
so  conscious  as  she  had  been,  of  the  beauty  around 
her.  The  silence  lasted  a  good  while;  she  won 
dered  if  her  neighbour's  thoughts  were  busy  with 
the  lady  he  had  just  set  down,  to  such  a  degree 
that  he  forgot  to  attend  to  his  new  companion  ? 
Nothing  could  be  more  wide  of  the  truth;  but  that 
is  the  way  we  judge  and  misjudge  one  another. 
She  was  almost  hurt  at  his  silence,  before  he  spoke 
again.  The  fact  is,  that  the  general  axiom  that  a 
man  can  always  put  in  words  anything  of  which 
his  head  and  heart  are  both  full,  seems  to  have  one 
exception.  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  a  good  talker,  always, 
on  matters  he  cared  about  and  matters  he  did  not 
care  about;  and  yet  now,  when  he  had  secured, 
one  would  say,  the  most  favourable  circumstances 
for  a  hearing,  and  opportunity  to  speak  as  he  liked, 


632  NOBODY. 

he  did  not  know  how  to  speak.  By  and  by  his 
hand  came  again  round  Lois  to  see  that  the  fur 
robes  were  well  tucked  in  about  her.  Something 
in  the  action  made  her  impatient. 

"  I  am  very  well — "  she  said. 

"You  must  be  taken  care  of,  you  know,"  he 
said;  to  Lois's  fancy  he  said  it  as  if  there  were 
some  one  to  whom  he  must  be  responsible  for 
her. 

"  I  am  not  used  to  being  taken  care  of,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  taken  care  of  myself,  generally." 

"Like  it  better?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  really  no  woman  can 
say  she  likes  it  better.  But  I  am  accustomed  to 
it." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  could  take  care  of  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  taking  capital  care  of  me,"  said  Lois, 
not  knowing  exactly  how  to  understand  him. 
"Just  now  it  is  your  business;  and  I  should  say 
you  were  doing  it  well." 

"  What  would  you  say,  if  I  told  you  that  I 
wanted  to  take  care  of  you  all  your  life  ?  " 

He  had  let  the  horses  come  to  a  walk ;  the  sleigh 
bells  only  tinkled  softly;  no  other  bells  were  near. 
Which  way  they  had  gone,  Lois  had  not  considered ; 
but  evidently  it  had  not  been  towards  the  busy  and 
noisy  haunts  of  men.  However,  she  did  not  think 
of  this  till  a  few  minutes  afterwards;  she  thought 
now  that  Mr.  Dillwyn's  words  regarded  Madge's 
sister,  and  her  feeling  of  independence  became 
rigid. 


OFF  AND  ON.  633 

"  A  kind  wish, — but  impracticable,"  she  answered. 

"Why?" 

"  I  shall  be  too  far  off.     That  is  one  thing." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  be  ? — Forgive  me  for 
asking ! " 

"  0  •  yes.  I  shall  be  keeping  school  in  New 
England  somewhere,  I  suppose;  first  of  all,  at 
Esterbrooke." 

"  But  if  I  had  the  care  of  you — you  would  not 
be  there  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  place,"  said  Lois  shortly. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  is  the  place  you  prefer  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  question  of  preference.  You  know, 
one's  work  is  what  is  given  one;  and  the  thing 
given  me  to  do,  at  present,  seems  to  be  there. 
Of  course  I  do  prefer  what  my  work  is." 

Still  the  horses  were  smoothly  walking.  Mr. 
Dillwyri  was  silent  a  moment. 

"You  did  not  understand  what  I  said  to  you 
just  now.  It  was  earnest." 

"  I  did  not  think  it  was  anything  else,"  said  Lois, 
beginning  to  wish  herself  at  home.  "  I  am  sure 
you  meant  it,  and  I  know  you  are  very  good;  but 
— you  cannot  take  care  of  me." 

"  Give  me  your  reasons,"  he  said,  restraining  the 
horses,  which  would  have  set  off  upon  a  quicker 
pace  again. 

"  Why  Mr.  Dillwyn,  it  is  self-evident.  You  would 
not  respect  me  if  I  allowed  you  to  do  it;  and  I 
should  not  respect  myself.  We  New  England  folks, 
if  we  are  nothing  else,  we  are  independent." 


634  NOBODY. 

"  So  ? — "  said  Mr.  Dillwyn,  in  a  puzzled  manner, 
but  then  a  light  broke  upon  him  and  he  half  laughed. 
— "  I  never  heard  that  the  most  rampant  spirit  of 
independence  made  a  wife  object  to  being  depend 
ent  on  her  husband." 

"  A  wife  ?  "  said  Lois,  not  knowing  whether  she 
heard  aright. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "How  else?  How  could  it  be 
else?  Lois,  may  I  have  you,  to  take  care  of  the 
rest  of  my  life,  as  my  very  own  ?  " 

The  short,  smothered  breath  with  which  this  was 
spoken  was  intelligible  enough,  and  put  Lois  in 
the  rarest  confusion. 

"  Me  ? — "  was  all  she  could  ejaculate. 

"  You,  certainly.  I  never  saw  any  other  woman 
in  my  life  to  whom  I  wished  to  put  the  question. 
You  are  the  whole  world  to  me,  as  far  as  happi 
ness  is  concerned." 

« I  ?_"  said  Lois  again.     "  I  thought—" 

"What?" 

She  hesitated,  and  he  urged  the  question.  Lois 
was  not  enough  mistress  of  herself  to  choose  her 
words. 

"I  thought — it  was  somebody  else." 

"  Did  you  ?— Who  did  you  think  it  was  ?  " 

"  0  don't  ask  me  !  " 

"  But  I  think  I  must  ask  you.  It  concerns  me  to 
know  how,  and  towards  whom,  my  manner  can 
have  misled  you.  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  not — your  manner — exactly,"  said  Lois 
in  terrible  embarrassment.  "  I  was,  mistaken." 


OFF  AND  ON.  635 

14  How  could  you  be  mistaken  ?  " 

"I  never  dreamed — the  thought  never  entered 
my  head — that — it  was  I." 

"  I  must  have  been  in  fault  then,"  said  he  gently; 
"  I  did  not  want  to  wear  my  heart  on  my  sleeve, 
and  so  perhaps  I  guarded  myself  too  well.  I  did 
not  wish  to  know  anybody  else's  opinion  of  my  suit 
till  I  had  heard  yours.  What  is  yours,  Lois  ? — what 
have  you  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

He  checked  the  horses  again,  and  sat  with  his 
face  inclined  towards  her,  waiting  eagerly,  Lois 
knew.  And  then,  what  a  sharp  pain  shot  through 
her !  All  that  had  gone  before  was  nothing  to  this ; 
and  for  a  moment  the  girl's  whole  nature  writhed 
under  the  torture.  She  knew  her  own  mind  now ; 
she  was  fully  conscious  that  the  best  gift  of  earth 
was  within  her  grasp;  her  hands  were  stretched 
longingly  towards  it,  her  whole  heart  bounded 
towards  it;  to  let  it  go  was  to  fall  into  an  abyss 
from  which  light  and  hope  seemed  banished;  there 
was  everything  in  all  the  world  to  bid  her  give  the 
answer  that  was  waited  for;  only  duty  bade  her 
not  give  it.  Loyalty  to  God  said  no,  and  her  prom 
ise  bound  her  tongue.  For  that  minute  that  she 
was  silent  Lois  wrestled  with  mortal  pain.  There 
are  martyrs  and  martyrdoms  now-a-days,  that  the 
world  takes  no  account  of;  nevertheless,  they  have 
bled  to  death  for  the  cause,  and  have  been  true  to 
their  King  at  the  cost  of  all  they  had  in  the  world. 
Mr.  Dillwyn  was  waiting,  and  the  fight  had  to  be 
short,  though  well  she  knew  the  pain  would  not  be. 


636  NOBODY. 

She  must  speak.  She  did  it  huskily  and  with  a 
fierce  effort.  It  seemed  as  if  the  words  would  not 
come  out. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,  Mr.  Dillwyn, — that  you 
would  like  to  hear,"  she  added,  remembering  that 
her  first  utterance  was  rather  indefinite. 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  ?  "  he  said  hurriedly. 

"Indeed  I  do." 

"  1  know,"  he  said,  "you  never  say  anything  you 
do  not  mean.  Rut  how  do  you  mean  it,  Lois  ?  Not 
to  deny  me  ?  You  do  not  mean  that  ?  " 

"Yes — "  she  said.  And  it  was  like  putting  a 
knife  through  her  own  heart  when  she  said  it.  0 
if  she  were  at  home !  0  if  she  had  never  come  on 
this  drive !  0  if  she  had  never  left  Esterbrooke 
and  those  sick  beds  1 — But  here  she  was,  and  must 
stand  the  question;  and  Mr.  Dillwyn  had  not  done. 

"  What  reason  do  you  give  me  ?  " — and  his  voice 
grated  now  with  pain. 

"  I  gave  none,"  said  Lois  faintly.  "  Don't  let  us 
talk  about  it!  It  is  no  use.  Don't  ask  me  any 
thing  more ! " 

"  One  question  I  must.  I  must  know  it.  Do  you 
dislike  me,  Lois?" 

"  Dislike  ?  0  no !  how  should  I  dislike  you  ?  " 
she  answered.  There  was  a  little,  very  slight,  vi 
bration  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke,  and  her  compan 
ion  discerned  it.  When  an  instrument  is  very 
high  strung,  a  quite  soft  touch  will  be  felt  and  an 
swered,  and  that  touch  swept  all  the  strings  of  Mr, 
Dillwyii's  soul  with  music. 


OFF  AND  ON.  637 

"If  you  do  not  dislike  me  then,"  said  he,  "what 
is  it  ?  Do  you,  possibly,  like  me,  Lois  ?  " 

Lois  could  not  prevent  a  little  hesitation  before 
she  answered,  and  that  too  Philip  well  noted. 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  she  said  desperately. 
"It  isn't  that.  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about 
it !  Mr.  Dillwyn,  the  horses  have  been  walking 
this  great  while,  and  we  are  a  long  way  from 
home ;  won't  you  drive  on  ?  " 

He  did  drive  on  then,  and  for  a  while  said  not  a 
word  more.  Lois  was  panting  with  eagerness  to 
get  home,  and  could  not  go  fast  enough ;  she  would 
gladly  have  driven  herself,  only  not  quite  such  a 
fresh  and  gay  pair  of  horses.  They  swept  along 
towards  a  region  that  she  could  see  from  afar  was 
thicker  set  with  lights  than  the  parts  where  they 
were.  Before  they  reached  it  however,  Mr.  Dillwyn 
drew  rein  again,  and  made  the  horses  walk  gently. 

"There  is  one  question  still  I  must  ask,"  he  said; 
"  and  to  ask  it,  1  must  for  a  moment  disobey  your 
commands.  Forgive  me;  but  when  the  happiness 
of  a  whole  life  is  at  stake,  a  moment's  pain  must 
be  borne — and  even  inflicted — to  make  sure  one  is 
not  suffering  needlessly  a  far  greater  evil.  Miss 
Lois,  you  never  do  anything  without  a  reason; 
tell  me  your  reason  for  refusing  me.  You  thought 
I  liked  some  one  else;  it  is  not  that;  I  never  have 
liked  any  one  else.  Now  what  is  it  ?  " 

"There  is  no  use  in  talking," — Lois  murmured. 
"It  is  only  pain." 

"  Necessary  pain,"  said  he  firmly.     "  It  is  right 


638  NOBODY. 

I  should  know,  and  it  must  be  possible  for  you  to 
tell  me.  Say  that  it  is  because  you  cannot  like 
me  well  enough — and  I  shall  understand  that." 

But  Lois  could  not  say  it;  and  the  pause,  which 
embarrassed  her  terribly,  had  naturally  a  different 
effect  upon  her  companion. 

"  It  is  not  that ! "  he  cried.  "  Have  you  been 
led  to  believe  something  false  about  me,  Lois? — 
Lois?" 

"No — "  she  said  trembling;  the  pain,  and  the 
difficulty  of  speaking,  and  the  struggle  it  cost,  set 
her  absolutely  to  trembling.  "No — it  is  something 
true"  She  spoke  faintly,  but  he  listened  well. 

"  True  !  WJiat  is  it  ?  It  is  not  true.  What  do 
you  mean,  dear  ?  " 

The  several  things  which  came  with  the  intona 
tions  of  this  last  question  overset  the  remnant  of 
Lois's  composure.  She  burst  into  tears;  and  he  was 
looking,  and  the  moonlight  was  full  in  her  face, 
and  he  could  not  but  see  it. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  she  cried;  "and  you  cannot 
help  it.  It  is  no  use  to  talk  about  it.  You  know, 
O  you  know,  you  are  not  a  Christian ! " 

It  was  almost  a  cry  at  last  with  which  she  said 
it;  and  the  usually  self-contained  Lois  hid  her  face 
away  from  him.  Whether  the  horses  walked  or 
trotted  for  a  little  while  she  did  not  know;  and  I 
think  it  was  only  mechanical,  the  effort  by  which 
their  driver  kept  them  at  a  foot  pace.  He  waited 
however,  till  Lois  dropped  her  hands  again,  and 
he  thought  she  would  attend  to  him. 


OFF  AND  ON.  639 

"May  I  ask,"  he  then  said,  and  his  voice  was 
curiously  clear  and  composed, — "if  that  is  your 
'only  objection  to  me  ?  " 

"It  is  enough!"  said  Lois  smotheredly,  and  no 
ticing  at  the  same  time  that  ring  in  his  voice. 

"You  think,  one  who  is  a  Christian  ought  never 
to  marry  another  who  is  not  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  No ! — "  she  said  in  the  same  way,  as  if  catching 
her  breath. 

"  It  is  very  often  done." 

She  made  no  reply.  This  was  a  most  cruel  dis 
cussion,  she  thought.  Would  they  never  reach 
home?  And  the  horses  walking!  Walking,  and 
shaking 'their  heads,  with  soft  little  peals  of  the 
bells,  like  creatures  who  had  at  last  got  quiet* 
enough  to  like  walking. 

"  Is  that  all,  Lois  ? "  he  asked  again ;  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  irritated  her. 

"There  need  not  be  anything  more,"  she  an 
swered.  "  That  is  enough.  'It  is  a  barrier  for 
ever  between  us;  you  cannot  overcome  it — and 
I  cannot.  O  do  make  the  horses  go !  we  shall 
never  get  home !  and  don't  talk  any  more." 

"I  will  let  the  horses  go  presently;  but  first  I 
must  talk  a  little  more,  because  there  is  something 
that  must  be  said.  That  was  a  barrier,  a  while 
ago ;  but  it  is  not  now.  There  is  no  need  for  either 
of  us  to  overcome  it  or"  try  to  overcome  it,  for  it 
does  not  exist.  Lois, — do  you  hear  me  ?  It  does 
not  exist." 

"I  do  not  understand — "  she  said  in  a  dazed 


040  NOBODY. 

kind  of  way,  turning  towards  him.     "What  does 
not  exist  ?  " 

"That  barrier — or  any  barrier — between  you  and 
me." 

"Yes,  it  does.  It  is  a  barrier.  I  promised  my 
dear  grandmother — and  if  I  had  not  promised  her, 
it  would  be  just  the  same,  for  I  have  promised  to 
obey  God;  and  he  forbids  it." 

"  Forbids  what  ?  " 

"Forbids  me,  a  Christian,  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  you,  who  are  not  a  Christian.  I  mean, 
in  that  way." 

"  But  Lois — I  am  a  Christian  too." 

"  You  ?  "  she  said  turning  towards  him.   • 
•    "Yes." 

"  What  sort  of  a  one  ?  " 

Philip  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  naive 
question,  which  however  he  perfectly  understood. 

"Not  an   old  one,"  he  said;   "and  not  a  good^ 
one ;  and  yet,  Lois,  truly  an  honest  one.     As  you 
mean  the  word.     One  whose  King  Christ  is,  as  he 
is  yours;  and  who  trusts  in  him  with  the  whole 
heart,  as  you  do." 

"  You  a  Christian  !  "  exclaimed  Lois  now,  in  the 
greatest  astonishment.  "  When  did  it  happen  ?  " 

He  laughed  again.  "  A  fair  question.  Well,  it 
came  about  last  summer.  You  recollect  our  talk 
one  Sunday  in  the  rain  ?  " 

«  0  yes !  "— 

"That  set  me  to  thinking;  and  the  more  I  saw 
of  you, — yes,  and  of  Mrs.  Armadale, — and  the  more 


OFF  AND  ON.  641 

I  heard  of  you  from  Mrs.  Barclay,  the.  more  the 
conviction  forced  itself  upon  my  mind,  that  I  was 
living,  and  had  always  lived,  a  fool's  life.  That 
was  a  conclusion  easily  reached;  but  how  to  be 
come  wise  was  another  matter.  I  resolved  to  give 
myself  to  the  study  till  I  had  found  the  answer; 
and  that  I  might  do  it  uninterruptedly,  I  betook 
myself  to  the  wilds  of  Canada,  with  not  much  bag 
gage  beside  my  gun  and  my  Bible.  I  hunted  and 
fished;  but  I  studied  more  than  I  did  either.  I 
took  time  for  it  too.  I  was  longing  to  see  you; 
but  I  resolved  this  subject  should  be  disposed  of 
first.  And  I  gave  myself  to  it,  until  it  was  all 
clear  to  me.  And  then  I  made  open  profession 
of  my  belief,  and  took  service  as  one  of  Christ's 
declared  servants.  That  was  in  Montreal." 

"  In  Montreal  I  " 

"Yes." 

"Why  did  you  never  say  anything  about  it, 
then?" 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  talking  on  the  subject, 
you  know.  But  really,  I  had  a  reason.  I  did  not 
want  to  seem  to  propitiate  your  favour  by  an^r 
such  means ;  I  wished  to  try  my  chances  with  you 
on  my  own  merits;  and  that  was  also  a  reason 
why  I  made  my  profession  in  Montreal.  I  wanted 
to  do  it  without  delay,  it  is  true ;  I  also  wanted  to 
do  it  quietly.  I  mean  everybody  shall  know;  but 
I  wished  you  to  be  the  first." 

There  followed  a  silence.  Things  rushed  into 
and  over  Lois's  mind  with  such  a  sweep  and  con- 


642  NOBODY. 

fusion,  that  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  think 
ing  or  feeling.  All  her  positions  were  knocked 
away;  all  her  assumptions  were  found  baseless; 
her  defences  had  been  erected  against  nothing; 
her  fears  and  her  hopes  were  alike  come  to  nought. 
That  is,  bien  entendu,  her  old  fears  and  her  old 
hopes;  and  amid  the  ruins  of  the  latter  new  ones 
were  starting,  in  equally  bewildering  confusion. 
Like  little  green  heads  of  daffodils  pushing  up 
above  the  frozen  ground,  and  fair  blossoms  of 
Hepatica  opening  beneath  a  concealing  mat  of  dead 
leaves.  Ah  they  would  blossom  freely  by  and  by ; 
now  Lois  hardly  knew  where  they  were  or  what 
they  were. 

Seeing  her  utterly  silent  and  moveless,  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  did  probably  the  wisest  thing  he  could  do,  and 
drove  on.  For  some  time  the  horses  trotted  and  the 
bells  jingled ;  and  by  too  swift  approaches  that  wil 
derness  of  lights  which  marked  the  city  suburb  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  When  it  was  very  near  and  they 
had  almost  entered  it,  he  drew  in  his  reins  again 
and  the  horses  tossed  their  heads  and  walked. 

•  "Lois,  I  think  it  is  fair  I  should  have  another 
answer  to  my  question  now." 

"  What  question  ? ''  she  asked  hurriedly. 

"You  know,  I  was  so  daring  as  to  ask  to  have 
the  care  of  you  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life,— 
or  of  mine.  What  do  you  say  to  it  ?  " 

Lois  said  nothing.  She  could  not  find  words. 
Words  seemed  to  tumble  over  one  another  in  her 
mind, — or  thoughts  did. 


OFF  AND  ON.  643 

"  What  answer  are  you  going  to  give  me  ?  "  he 
asked  again,  more  gravely. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Dillwyn,"  said  Lois  stammer- 
ingly,  "  I  never  thought, — I  never  knew  before, — 
I  never  had  any  notion,  that — that — that  you 
thought  so. — " 

"  Thought  so  ?— about  what  ?  " 

"About  me." 

"  I  have  thought  so  about  you  for  a  great  while." 

Silence  again.  The  horses,  being  by  this  time 
pretty  well  exercised,  needed  no  restraining  and 
walked  for  their  own  pleasure.  Everything  with 
Lois  seemed  to  be  in  a  whirl. 

"And  now  it  becomes  necessary  to  know  what 
you  think  about  me," — Mr.  Dillwyn  went  on,  after 
that  pause. 

"  I  am  very  glad — "  Lois  said  tremulously. 

"Of  what?" 

"That  you  are  a  Christian." 

"Yes,  but,"  said  he  half  laughing,  "that  is  not 
the  immediate  matter  in  hand.  What  do  you  think 
of  me  in  my  proposed  character  as  having  the  own 
ership  and  the  care  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  you  so,"  Lois  managed 
to  get  out.  The  words  were  rather  faint,  heard 
however,  as  Mr.  Dillwyn's  hand  came  just  then  ad 
justing  and  tucking  in  her  fur  robes,  and  his  face 
was  thereby  near  hers. 

"  And  now  you  do  think  of  me  so? — What  do  you 
say  to  me  ?  " 

She  could  not  say  anything.     Never  in  her  life 


644  NOBODY. 

had  Lois  been  at  a  loss  and  wrecked  in  all  self-man 
agement  before. 

"You  know,  it  is  necessary  to  say  something, 
that  I  may  know  where  I  stand.  I  must  either 
stay  or  go.  Will  you  send  me  away? — or  keep  me 
'for  good,'  as  the  children  say?" 

The  tone  was  not  without  a  touch  of  grave  anx 
iety  now,  and  impatient  earnestness,  which  Lois 
heard  well  enough  and  would  have  answered ;  but 
it  seemed  as  if  her  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  her 
mouth.  Mr.  Dillwyn  waited  now  for  her  to  speak, 
keeping  the  horses  at  a  walk,  and  bending  down  a  lit 
tle  to  hear  what  she  would  say.  One  sleigh  passed 
them,  then  another.  It  became  intolerable  to  Lois. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  send  you  away — "  she  managed 
finally  to  say  trembling. 

The  words  however  were  clear  and  slow-spoken, 
and  Mr.  Dillwyn  asked  no  more  then.  He  drove 
on,  and  attended  to  his  driving,  even  went  fast; 
and  Lois  hardly  knew  how  houses  and  rocks  and 
vehicles  flew  past  them,  till  the  reins  were  drawn 
at  Mrs.  Wishart's  door.  Philip  whistled;  a  groom 
presently  appeared  from  the  house  and  took  the 
horses,  and  he  lifted  Lois  out.  As  they  were  go 
ing  up  the  steps  he  asked  softly. 

"  Is  that  all  you  are  going  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  enough  for  to-night  ?  "  Lois  returned. 

"  I  see  you  think  so,"  he  said  half  laughing.  "  I 
don't;  but  however — Are  you  going  to  be  alone  to 
morrow  morning,  or  will  you  take  another  sleigh 
ride  with  me  ?  " 


OFF  AND  ON.  645 

"Mrs.  Wishart  and  Madge  are  going  to  Mme. 

Cisco's  matinee." 
"At  what  o'clock?" 
"They  will  leave  here  at  half  past  ten." 
"Then  I  will  be  here  before  eleven." 
The  door  opened,  and  with  a  grip  of  her  hand 

he  turned  away 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

PLANS. 

LOIS  went  along  the  hall  in  that  condition  of 
the  nerves  in  which  the  feet  seem  to  walk 
without  stepping  on  anything.  She  queried  what 
time  it  could  be ;  was  the  evening  half  gone  ?  or 
had  they  possibly  not  done  tea  yet?  Then  the 
parlour  door  opened. 

"Lois! — is  that  you?  Come  along;  you  are 
just  in  time ;  we  are  at  tea.  Hurry,  now  !  " 

Lois  went  to  her  room,  wishing  that  she  could 
any  way  escape  going  to  the  table;  she  felt  as  if 
her  friend  and  her  sister  would  read  the  news  in 
her  face  immediately,  and  hear  it  in  her  voice 
as  soon  as  she  spoke.  There  was  no  help  for  it; 
she  hastened  down,  and  presently  perceived  to 
her  wonderment  that  her  friends  were  absolutely 
without  suspicion.  She  kept  as  quiet  as  possible, 
and  found,  happily,  that  she  was  very  hungry. 
Mrs.  Wishart  and  Madge  were  busy  in  talk. 

"  You  remember  Mr.  Caruthers,  Lois  ?  "  said  the 
former ; — "  Tom  Caruthers,  who  used  to  be  here  so 
often  ?  " 

(646) 


PLANS.  647 

"  Certainly." 

"  Did  you  hear  he  had  made  a  great  match  ?  " 

"  I  heard  he  was  going  to  be  married.  I  heard 
that  a  great  while  ago." 

"Yes,  he  has  made  a  very  great  match.  It 
has  been  delayed  by  the  death  of  her  mother; 
they  had  to  wait.  He  was  married  a  few 
months  ago,  in  Florence.  They  had  a  splendid 
wedding." 

"  What  makes  what  you  call  a  *  great  match '  ?  " 
Madge  asked. 

"Money, — and  family." 

"1  understand  money,"  Madge  went  on;  "but 
what  do  you  mean  by  '  family,'  Mrs.  Wishart  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  if  you  lived  in  the  world,  you  would 
know.  It  means  name,  and  position,  and  standing. 
I  suppose  at  Shampuashuh  you  are  all  alike — one 
is  as  good  as  another." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Madge,  "  you  are  much  mistaken, 
Mrs.  Wishart.  We  think  one  is  much  better  than 
another." 

"Do  you?  Ah  well, — then  you  know  what  I 
mean,  my  dear.  I  suppose  the  world  is  really 
very  much  alike  in  all  places;  it  is  only  the  names 
of  things  that  vary." 

"  In  Shampuashuh,"  Madge  went  on,  "  we  mean 
by  a  good  family,  a  houseful  of  honest  and  religious 
people." 

"  Yes,  Madge,"  said  Lois  looking  up,  "  we  mean 
a  little  more  than  that.  We  mean  a  family  that 
has  been  honest  and  religious,  and  educated  too, 


648  NOBODY. 

for  a  long  while — for  generations.  We  mean 
as  much  as  that,  when  we  speak  of  a  good 
family." 

"  That's  different,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart  shortly. 

"  Different  from  what  you  mean  ?  "  said  Madge. 

"Different  from  what  is  meant  here,  when  we 
use  the  term." 

"You  don't  mean  anything  honest  and  relig 
ious  ?  "  said  Madge, 

"0  honest!  My  dear,  everybody  is  honest,  or 
supposed  to  be;  but  we  do  not  mean  religious." 

"Not  religious,  and  only  supposed  to  be  hon 
est!"  echoed  Madge. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "It  isn't  that.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  that.  When  people  have 
been  in  society  and  held  high  positions  for  genera 
tion  after  generation,  it  is  a  good  family.  The 
individuals  need  not  be  all  good." 

"  Oh — !  "  said  Madge. 

"  No.  I  know  families  among  the  very  best  in 
the  State,  that  have  been  wicked  enough;  but 
though  they  have  been  wicked,  that  did  not  hin 
der  their  being  gentlemen." 

"  Oh — !  "  said  Madge  again.  "  I  begin  to  com 
prehend." 

"There  is  too  much  made  of  money  now-a-days." 
Mrs.  Wishart  went  on  serenely;  "and  there  is  no 
denying  that  money  buys  position.  I  do  not  call 
a  good  family  one  that  was  not  a  good  family  a 
hundred  years  ago ;  but  everybody  is  not  so  par 
ticular.  Not  here.  They  are  more  particular  in 


PLANS.  649 

Philadelphia.  In  New  York,  any  nobody  who  has 
money  can  push  himself  forward." 

"  What  sort  of  family  is  Mr.  Dillwyn's  ?  " 

"0  good,  of  course.  Not  wealthy,  till  lately. 
They  have  been  poor,  ever  since  I  knew  the  fam 
ily;  until  the  sister  married  Chauncey  Burrage, 
and  Philip  came  into  his  property." 

"The  Caruthers  are  rich,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"And  now  the  young  one  has  made  a  great 
match  ?  Is  she  handsome  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  so.  But  she  is  rolling  in. 
money." 

"What  else  is  she?"  inquired  Madge  dryly. 

"  She  is  a  Dulcimer." 

" That  tells  me  nothing,"  said  Madge.  "By  the 
way  you  speak  it,  the  word  seems  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  meaning  for  you." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart.  "  She  is  one  of 
the  Philadelphia  Dulcimers.  It  is  an  old  family, 
and  they  have  always  been  wealthy." 

"  How  happy  the  gentleman  must  be  ! " 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Wishart  gravely.  "You 
used  to  know  Tom  quite  well,  Lois.  What  did  you 
think  of  him?" 

"I  liked  him,"  said  Lois.  "Very  pleasant  and 
amiable,  and  always  gentlemanly.  But  I  did  not 
think  he  had  much  character." 

Mrs.  Wishart  was  satisfied;  for  Lois's  tone  was  as 
disengaged  as  anything  could  possibly  be. 

Lois  could  not  bring  herself  to  say  anything  to 


650  NOBODY. 

Madge  that  night  about  the  turn  in  her  fortunes. 
Her  own  thoughts  were  in  too  much  agitation,  and 
only  by  slow  degrees  resolving  themselves  into 
settled  conclusions.  Or  rather,  for  the  conclusions 
were  not  doubtful,  settling  into  such  quiet  that  she 
could  look  at  conclusions.  And  Lois  began  to  be 
afraid  to  do  even  that,  and  tried  to  turn  her  eyes 
away,  and  thought  of  the  hour  of  half  past  ten  next 
morning  with  trembling  and  heart-beating. 

It  came  with  tremendous  swiftness,  too.  How 
ever,  she  excused  herself  from  going  to  the  matinee, 
though  with  difficulty.  Mrs.  Wishart  was  sure  she 
ought  to  go ;  and  Madge  tried  persuasion  and  rail 
lery.  Lois  watched  her  get  ready,  and  at  last  con 
tentedly  saw  the  two  drive  off.  That  was  good. 
She  wanted  no  discussion  with  them  before  she  had 
seen  Mr.  Dillwyn  again;  and  now  the  coast  was 
clear.  But  then  Lois  retreated  to  her  own  room  up 
stairs  to  wait;  she  could  not  stay  in  the  drawing- 
room,  to  be  found  there.  She  would  have  so  much 
time  for  preparation  as  his  ring  at  the  door  and  his 
name  being  brought  up  stairs  would  give  her. 
Preparation  for  what?  When  the  summons  came, 
Lois  went  down  feeling  that  she  had  not  a  bit  of 
preparation. 

Philip  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
waiting  for  her;  and  the  apparition  that  greeted 
him  was  so  unexpected  that  he  stood  still,  feasting 
his  eyes  with  it.  He  had  always  seen  Lois  calm, 
collected,  moving  and  speaking  with  frank  inde 
pendence,  although  with  perfect  modesty.  Now? 


PLANS.  651 

— how  was  it?  Eyes  cast  down,  colour  coming  and 
going;  a  look  and  manner,  not  of  shyness,  for  she 
came  straight  to  him,  but  of  the  most  lovely  maid 
enly  consciousness ;  of  all  things,  that  which  a  lover 
would  most  wish  to  see.  Yet  she  came  straight  to 
him,  and  as  he  met  her  and  held  out  his  hand,  she 
put  hers  in  it. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  me  this  morning, 
Lois?"  he  said  softly;  for  the  pure  dignity  of  the 
girl  was  a  thing  to  fill  him  with  reverence  as  well 
as  with  delight,  and  her  hand  seemed  to  him  some 
thing  sacred. 

Her  colour  stirred  again,  but  the  lowered  eyelids 
were  lifted  up  and  the  eyes  met  his  with  a  most 
blessed  smile  in  them. 

"  I  am  very  happy,  Mr.  Dillwyn — "  she  said. 

Everybody  knows  how  words  fail  upon  occasion ; 
and  on  this  occasion  the  silence  lasted  some  con 
siderable  time.  And  then  Philip  put  Lois  into  one 
of  the  big  easy  chairs,  and  went  down  on  one  knee 
at  her  feet,  holding  her  hand.  Lois  tried  to  collect 
her  spirits  to  make  remonstrance. 

"  0  Mr.  Dillwyn,  do  not  stay  there ! "  she  begged. 

"  Why  not?     It  becomes  me." 

"  1  do  not  think  it  becomes  you  at  all,"  said  Lois, 
laughing  a  little  nervously, — "and  I  am  sure  it 
does  not  become  me."  -  .  . 

"Mistaken  on  both  points!  It  becomes  me  well, 
and  I  think  it  does  not  become  you  ill,"  said  he, 
kissing  the  hand  he  held.  And  then,  bending  for 
ward  to  carry  his  kiss  from  the  hand  to  the  cheek, 


652  NOBODY. 

— "0  my  darling,  how  long  I  have  waited  for 
this!—" 

"  Long  ?  "  said  Lois  in  surprise.  How  pretty  the 
incredulity  was  on  her  innocent  face. 

"  Very  long ! — while  you  thought  I  was  liking 
somebody  else.  There  has  never  been  any  change 
in  me,  Lois.  I  have  been  patiently  and  impatiently 
waiting  for  you,  this  great  while.  You  will  not 
think  it  unreasonable,  if  that  fact  makes  me  in 
tolerant  of  any  more  waiting,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  keep  that  position ! "  said  Lois  earn 
estly. 

"  It  is  the  position  I  mean  to  keep  all  the  rest 
of  my  life  !  " 

But  that  set  Lois  to  laughing,  a  little  nervously 
no  doubt,  yet  so  merrily  that  Philip  could  not  but 
join  in. 

"  Do  I  not  owe  everything  to  you  ? "  he  went 
on  presently  with  tender  seriousness.  "  You  first 
set  me  upon  thinking.  Do  you  recollect  your  ear 
liest  talk  to  me  here  in  this  room  once,  a  good 
while  ago,  about  being  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes — "  said  Lois,  suddenly  opening  her  eyes. 

"That  was  the  beginning.  You  said  it  to  me 
more  with  your  looks  than  with  your  words;  for 
I  saw  that,  somehow,  you  were  in  the  secret,  and 
had  yourself  what  you  offered  to  me.  That  I  could 
not  forget.  I  had  never  seen  anybody  *  satisfied ' 
before." 

"You  know  what  it  means  now?"  she  said 
softly. 


PLANS.  653 

"To-day?—     I  do  !  " 

"No,  no;  I  do  not  mean  to-day.  You  know  what 
I  mean  !  "  she  said  with  beautiful  blushes. 

"I  know.  Yes,  and  I  have  it,  Lois.  But  you 
have  a. great  deal  to  teach  me  yet." 

"  Oh  no !  "  she  said  most  unaffectedly.  "  It  is 
you  who  will  have  to  teach  me." 

"What?" 

"  Everything." 

"  How  soon  may  I  begin  ?  " 

"How  soon?" 

"  Yes.  You  do  not  think  Mrs.  Wishart's  house 
is  the  best  place,  or  her  company  the  best  assist 
ance  for  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  please  get  up !  "  said  Lois. 

But  he  laughed  at  her. 

"You  make  me  so  ashamed  !  " — 

"You  do  not  look  it  in  the  least.  Shall  I  tell 
you  my  plans?" 

"  Plans ! "  said  Lois. 

"  Or  will  you  tell  me  your  plans?  " 

"Ah,  you  are  laughing  at  me!  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"  You  were  confiding  to  me  your  plans  of  a  lit 
tle  while  ago?  Esterbrooke,  and  school,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  My  darling ! — that's  all  nowhere." 

"  But," — said  Lois  timidly. 

"Well?" 

"  That  is  all  gone,  of  course.     But — " 

"  You  will  let  me  say  what  you  shall  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  will." 


654  NOBODY. 

"Your  hand  is  in  all  my  plans,  from  henceforth, 
to  turn  them  and  twist  them  what  way  you  like. 
But  now  let  me  tell  you  my  present  plans.  Wo 
will  be  married,  as  soon  as  you  can  accustom  your 
self  to  the  idea.  Hush! — wait.  You  shall  ha,ve 
time  to  think  about  it.  Then,  as  early  as  spring 
winds  will  let  us,  we  will  cross  to  England." 

"  England  ?  " — cried  Lois. 

"  Wait,  and  hear  me  out.  There  we  will  look 
about  us  awhile  and  get  such  things  as  you  may 
want  for  travelling,  which  one  can  get  better  in 
England  than  anywhere  else.  Then  we  will  go 
over  the  Channel  and  see  Paris,  and  perhaps  sup 
plement  purchases  there.  So  work  our  way — " 

"Always  making  purchases? — "  said  Lois  laugh 
ing,  though  she  caught  her  breath  too,  and  her 
colour  was  growing  high. 

"  Certainly,  making  purchases.  So  work  our  way 
along,  and  get  to  Switzerland  early  in  June — say 
by  the  end  of  the  first  week." 

"  Switzerland ! " 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  Switzerland  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  not  the  question,  what  I  might  like 
to  see." 

"  With  me,  it  is." 

"As  for  that,  I  have  an  untirable  appetite  for 
seeing  things.  But — but,"  and  her  voice  lowered, 
"  I  can  be  quite  happy  enough  on  this  side." 

"  Not  if  I  can  make  you  happier  on  the  other." 

"  But  that  depends.  I  should  not  be  happy  un 
less  I  was  quite  sure  it  was  right,  and  the  best 


PLANS.  655 

thing  to  do;  and  it  looks  to  me  like  a  piece  of 
self-indulgence.  We  have  so  much  already." 

The  gentle  manner  of  this  scruple  and  frank 
admission  touched  Mr.  Dillwyn  exceedingly. 

"  I  think  it  is  right,"  he  said  "  Do  you  remember 
my  telling  you  once  about  my  old  house  at  home?" 

"  Yes,  a  little." 

"  I  think  I  never  told  you  much ;  but  now  you 
will  care  to  hear.  It  is  a  good  way  from  this  place, 
in  Foster  county,  and  not  very  far  from  a  busy  lit 
tle  manufacturing  town ;  but  it  stands  alone  in  the 
country,  in  the  midst  of  fields  and  woods  that  I 
used  to  love  very  much  when  I  was  a  boy.  The 
place  never  came  into  my  possession  till  about  sev 
en  or  eight  years  ago;  and  for  much  longer  than 
that  it  has  been  neglected  and  left  without  any 
sort  of  care.  But  the  house  is  large  and  old- 
fashioned,  and  can  be  made  very  pretty;  and  the 
grounds,  as  I  think,  leave  nothing  to  be  desired, 
in  their  natural  capabilities.  However,  all  is  in 
disorder,  and  needs  a  good  deal  of  work  done  up 
on  it;  which  must  be  done  before  you  take  posses 
sion.  This  work  will  require  some  months.  Where 
can  we  be  better,  meanwhile,  than  in  Switzerland?  " 

"  Can  the  work  be  done  without  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

He  waited  a  bit.  The  new  things  at  work  in 
Lois's  mind  made  the  new  expression  of  manner  and 
feature  a  most  delicious  study  to  him.  She  had  a 
little  difficulty  in  speaking,  and  he  was  still  and 
watched  her. 


656  NOBODY. 

"  I  am  afraid  to  talk  about  it,"  she  said  at  length, 

"Why?" 

"  I  should  like  it  so  much !  " — 

"  Therefore  you  doubt  ?  " 

u  Yes.  I  am  afraid  of  listening  just  to  my  own 
pleasure." 

"  You  shall  not,"  said  he  laughing.  "  Listen  to 
mine.  I  want  to  see  your  eyes  open  at  the  Jung 
Frau,  and  Mont  Blanc." 

"My  eyes  open  easily  at  anything,"  said  Lois, 
yielding  to  the  laugh; — "they  are  such  ignorant 
eyes." 

"  Very  wise  eyes,  on  the  contrary !  for  they  know 
a  thing  when  they  see  it." 

"  But  they  have  seen  so  little — "  said  Lois,  finding 
it  impossible  to  get  back  to  a  serious  demeanour. 

"  That  sole  defect  in  your  character,  I  propose  to 
cure." 

"  Ah,  do  not  praise  me !  " 

"Why  not?  I  used  to  rejoice  in  the  remem 
brance  that  you  were  not  an  angel  but  human. 
Do  you  know  the  old  lines  ? — 

"  *  A  creature  not  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles.' 

"Only,  'wiles'  you  never  descend  to;  'blame'  is 
not  to  be  thought  of;  if  you  forbid  praise,  what  is 
left  to  me  but  the  rest  of  it  ?  " 

And  truly,  what  with  laughter  and  some  other 


PLANS.  657 

emotions,  tears  were  not  far  from  Lois's  eyes;  and 
how  could  the  kisses  be  wanting  ? 

"  I  never  heard  you  talk  so  before ! "  she  man 
aged  to  say. 

"  I  have  only  begun." 

"  Please  come  back  to  order,  and  sobriety." 

"Sobriety  is  not  in  order,  as  your  want  of  it 
shews." 

"  Then  come  back  to  Switzerland." 

"  Ah  ! — I  want  you  to  go  up  the  ^Eggischhorn, 
and  to  stand  on  the  Gorner  Grat,  and  to  cross  a 
pass  or  two;  and  I  want  you  to  see  the  flowers." 

"  Are  there  so  many  ?  " 

"More  than  on  a  western  prairie  in  spring. 
Most  people  travel  in  Switzerland  later  in  the  sea 
son,  and  so  miss  the  flowers.  You  must  not  miss 
them." 

"What  flowers  are  they?" 

"A  very  great  many  kinds.  I  remember  the 
gentians,  and  the  forgetmenots ;  but  the  profusion 
is  wonderful,  and  exceedingly  rich.  They  grow 
just  at  the  edge  of  the  snow,  some  of  them.  Then 
we  will  linger  awhile  at  Zermatt  and  Chamounix, 
and  a  mountain  pension  here  and  there,  and  so 
slowly  work  our  way  over  into  Italy.  It  will  be 
too  late  for  Rome ;  but  we  will  go,  if  you  like  it,  to 
Venice;  and  then  as  the  heats  grow  greater  get 
back  into  the  Tyrol." 

"0  Mrs.  Barclay  had  beautiful  views  from  the 
Tyrol;  a  few,  but  very  beautiful." 

"  How  do  you  like  my  programme  ?  " 


658  NOBODY. 

"  You  have  not  mentioned  glaciers." 

"  Are  you' interested  in  glaciers  ?  " 

"  Very  much." 

"  You  shall  see  as  much  of  them  as  you  can  see 
safely  from  terra  firma." 

"Are  they  so  dangerous?" 

"Sometimes." 

"  But  you  have  crossed  them,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"  Times  enough  to  make  me  scruple  about  your 
doing  it." 

"  I  am  very  sure-footed." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  and  inquired  again  what  she 
thought  of  his  programme  ? 

u  There  is  no  fault  to  be  found  with  the  pro 
gramme.  But — " 

"  If  I  add  to  it  the  crossing  of  a  glacier  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Lois  laughing;  "do  you  think  I 
am  so  insatiable  ?  But — " 

"  Would  you  like  it  all,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  Like  it  ?  Don't  speak  of  liking,"  she  said  with 
a  quick  breath  of  excitement.  "  But — " 

"  Well  ?     But— what  ?  " 

"  We  are  not  going  to  live  to  ourselves  ?  "  She 
said  it  a  little  anxiously  and  eagerly,  almost  plead 
ingly. 

"  I  do  not  mean  it,"  he  answered  her  with  a 
smile.  "But  as  to  this  journey  niy  mind  is  entire 
ly  clear.  It  will  take  but  a  few  months.  And 
while  we  are  wandering  over  the  mountains,  you 
and  I  will  take  our  Bibles  and  study  them  and  our 
work  together.  We  can  study  where  we  stop  to 


PLANS.  659 

rest  and  where  we  stop  to  eat;  I  know  by  experi 
ence  what  good  times  and  places  those  are  for 
other  reading;  and  they  cannot  be  so  good  for  any 
as  for  this." 

"  Oh !  how  good  !  "  said  Lois,  giving  a  little  de 
lighted  and  grateful  pressure  to  the  hand  in  which 
her  own  still  lay. 

"You  agree  to  my  plans,  then?" 

"  I  agree  to — part.  What  is  that?" — for  a  slight 
noise  was  heard  in  the  hall. — "  0  Philip,  get  up  ! — 
get  up  ! — there  is  somebody  coming !  " 

Mr.  Dillwyn  rose  now,  being  bidden  on  this 
wise,  and  stood  confronting  the  doorway,  in  which 
presently  appeared  his  sister,  Mrs.  Burrage.  He 
stood  quiet  and  calm  to  meet  her;  while  Lois,  hid 
den  by  the  back  of  the  great  easy  chair  had  a  mo 
ment  to  collect  herself.  He  shielded  her  as  much 
as  he  could.  A  swift  review  of  the  situation  made 
him  resolve  for  the  present  to  "play  dark."  He 
could  not  trust  his  sister,  that  if  the  truth  of  the 
case  were  suddenly  made  known  to  her,  she  would 
not  by  her  speech,  or  manner,  or  by  her  silence 
maybe,  do  something  that  would  hurt  Lois.  He 
would  not  risk  it.  Give  her  time,  and  she  would 
fit  herself  to  her  circumstances  gracefully  enough, 
he  knew ;  and  Lois  need  never  be  told  what  had 
been  her  sister-in-law's  first  view  of  them.  So  he 
stood,  with  an  unconcerned  face,  watching  Mrs. 
Burrage  come  down  the  room.  And  she,  it  may 
be  said,  came  slowly,  watching  him. 


CHAPTER  XI VIII. 

ANNOUNCEMENTS. 

1HAVE  never  described  Mr.  Dillwyn;  and  if  I 
try  to  do  it  now,  I  am  aware  that  words  will 
give  to  nobody  else  the  image  of  him.  He  was  not 
a  beauty,  like  Tom  Caruthers;  some  people  de 
clared  him  not  handsome  at  all,  yet  they  were  in 
a  minority.  Certainly  his  features  were  not  ac 
cording  to  classical  rule,  and  criticism  might  find 
something  to  say  to  every  one  of  them ;  if  I  ex 
cept  the  shape  and  air  of  the  face  and  head,  the 
set  of  the  latter,  and  the  rich  hair ;  which,  very 
dark  in  colour,  massed  itself  thick  and  high  on  the 
top  of  the  head,  and  clung  in  close  thick  locks  at 
the  sides.  The  head  sat  nobly  upon  the  shoulders, 
and  correspondent  therewith  was  the  frank  and 
manly  expression  of  the  face.  I  think  irregular 
features  sometimes  make  a  better  whole  than  reg 
ular  ones.  Philip's  eyes  were  not  remarkable,  un 
less  for  their  honest  and  spirited  outlook;  his  nose 
was  neither  Roman  nor  Grecian,  and  his  mouth 
was  rather  large;  however  it  was  somewhat  con 
cealed  by  the  long  soft  moustache,  which  he  wore 

(660) 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  661 

after  the  fashion  of  some  Continentals  (N.  B.,  not 
like  the  French  emperor)  carefully  dressed  and  with 
points  turning  up ;  and  the  mouth  itself  was  both 
manly  and  pleasant.  Altogether,  the  people  who 
denied  Mr.  Dillwyn  the  praise  of  beauty,  never  ques 
tioned  that  he  was  very  fine-looking.  His  sister  was 
excessively  proud^  of  him,  and,  naturally,  thought 
that  nothing  less  than  the  best  of  everything — 
more  especially  of  womankind, — was  good  enough 
for  him.  She  was  thinking  this  now,  as  she  came 
down  the  room,  and  looking  jealously  to  see  signs 
of  what  she  dreaded,  an  entanglement  that  would 
preclude  for  ever  his  having  the  best.  Do  not  let 
us  judge  her  hardly.  What  sister  is  not  critical 
of  her  brother's  choice  of  a  wife  ?  if  indeed  she  be 
willing  that  he  should  have  a  wife  at  all.  Mrs. 
Burrage  watched  for  signs,  but  saw  nothing.  Phil 
ip  stood  there,  calmly  smiling  at  her,  not  at  all 
flustered  by  her  appearance.  Lois  saw  his  cool 
ness  too,  and  envied  it;  feeling  that  as  a  man,  and 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  he  had  greatly  the  advan 
tage  of  her.  She  was  nervous,  and  felt  flushed. 
However  there  is  a  power  of  will  in  some  women 
which  can  do  a  great  deal,  and  Lois  was  deter 
mined  that  Mr.  Dillwyn  should  not  be  ashamed  of 
her.  By  the  time  it  was  needful  for  her  to  rise  she 
did  rise,  and  faced  her  visit er  with  a  very  quiet  and 
perfectly  composed  manner.  Only,  if  anything,  it 
was  a  trifle  too  quiet ;  but  her  manner  was  other 
wise  quite  faultless. 

"Philip! — "    said    Mrs.    Burrage    advancing. — 


662  NOBODY. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Lothrop. —Philip,  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  "  t 

"  I  believe  you  as'ted  me  that  question  once  on 
a  former  occasion.  Then,  I  think  I  had  been  mak 
ing  toast.  Now,  I  have  been  telling  Miss  Lothrop 
my  plans  for  the  summer,  since  she  was  so  good 
as  to  listen." 

"  Plans  ?"  repeated  Mrs.  Burrage.  "What  plans?" 
She  looked  doubtfully  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
faces  before  her.  "Does  he  tell  you  his  plans, 
Miss  Lothrop  ?  " 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mrs.  Burrage?"  said  Lois. 
"  I  am  always  interested  when  anybody  speaks  of 
Switzerland." 

"  Switzerland ! "  cried  the  lady,  sinking  into  a 
chair,  and  her  eyes  going  to  her  .brother  again. 
"You  are  not  talking  of  Switzerland  for  next 
summer?" 

"  Where  can  one  be  better  in  summer  ?  " 

"  But  you  have  been  there  ever  so  many  times ! " 

"  By  which  I  know  how  good  it  will  be  to  go 
again." 

"  I  thought  you  would  spend  the  summer  with 
me!" 

"Where?"  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  Philip,  I  wish  you  would  dress  your  hair  like 
other  people." 

"  It  defies  dressing,  sister,"  he  said,  passing  his 
hand  over  the  thick  mass. 

"No,  no,  I  mean  your  moustache.  When  you 
smile,  it  gives  you  a  demoniac  expression,  which 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  663 

drives  me  out  of  all  patience.  Miss  Lothrop, 
would  he  not  look  a  great  deal  better  if  he  would 
cut  off*  those  Hungarian  twists,  and  wear  his  upper 
lip  like  a  Christian  ?  " 

This  was  a  trial !  Lois  gave  one  glance  at  the 
moustache  in  question,  a  glance  compounded  of 
mingled  horror  and  amusement,  and  flushed  all 
over.  Philip  saw  the  glance  and  commanded  his 
features  only  by  a  strong  exertion  of  will,  remain 
ing  however  to  all  seeming  as  impassive  as  a 
judge. 

"  You  don't  think  so  ? "  said  Mrs.  Burrage. 
"  Philip,  why  are  you  not  at  that  picture  sale  this 
minute,  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  are  you  not  there,  let  me  ask,  this  minute 
without  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  if  I  should  buy 
in  that  Murillo." 

"  I  can  tell  you  as  well  here  as  there.  What  do 
you  want  to  buy  it  for  ?  " 

"  What  a  question !  Why  they  say  it  is  a  genuine 
Murillo,  and  no  doubt  about  it;  and  I  have  just  one 
place  on  the  wall  in  my  second  drawing  room, 
where  something  is  wanting;  there  is  one  place  not 
filled  up,  and  it  looks  badly." 

"And  the  Murillo  is  to  fill  up  the  vacant  space?" 

"  Yes.     If  you  say  it  is  worth  it." 

"Worth  what?" 

"The  money.  Five  hundred.  But  I  dare  say 
they  would  take  four,  and  perhaps  three.  It  is  a 
real  Murillo,  they  say.  Everybody  says." 


G64  NOBODY. 

"  Jessie,  I  think  it  would  be  extravagance." 

"  Extravagance !  Five  hundred  dollars  for  a  Mu- 
rillo !  Why  everybody  says  it  is  no  price  at  all." 

"  Not  for  the  Murillo ;  but  for  a  wall  panel,  I  think 
it  is.  What  do  you  say,  Miss  Lothrop,  to  panelling 
a  room  at  five  hundred  dollars  the  panel?  " 

"  Miss  Lothrop's  experience  in  panels  would 
hardly  qualify  her  to  answer  you," — Mrs.  Burrage 
said,  with  a  polite  covert  sneer. 

"  Miss  Lothrop  has  experience  in  some  other 
things,"  Philip  returned  immoveably.  But  the 
appeal  put  Lois  in  great  embarrassment. 

"What  is  the  picture?"  she  asked,  as  the  best 
way  out  of  it. 

"It's  a  St.  Sebastian,"  Mrs.  Burrage  answered 
shortly. 

"Do  you  know  the  story?  "asked  Philip.  "He 
was  an  officer  in  the  household  of  the  Roman  em 
peror,  Diocletian;  a  Christian;  and  discovered  to 
be  a  Christian  by  his  bold  and  faithful  daring  in 
the  cause  of  truth.  Diocletian  ordered  him  to  be 
bound  to  a  tree  and  shot  to  death  with  arrows,  and 
that  the  inscription  over  his  head  should  state  that 
there  was  no  fault  found  in  him  but  only  that  he 
was  a  Christian.  This  picture  my  sister  wants  to 
buy,  shews  him  stripped  and  bound  to  the  tree,  and 
the  executioner's  work  going  on.  Arrows  are  pierc 
ing  him  in  various  places;  and  the  saint's  fa,ce  is 
raised  to  heaven  with  the  look  upon  it  of  struggling 
pain  and  triumphing  faith  together.  You  can  see 
that  the  struggle  is  sharp,  and  that  only  strength 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  665 

which  is  not  his  own  enables  him  to  hold  out ;  but 
you  see  that  he  will  hold  out,  and  the  martyr's  palm 
of  victory  is  even  already  waving  before  him." 

Lois's  eyes  eagerly  looked  into  those  of  the  speaker 
while  he  went  on ;  then  they  fell  silently.  Mrs.  Bur- 
rage  grew  impatient. 

"You  tell  it  with  a  certain  gout"  she  said.  "It's 
a  horrid  story !  " 

"  0,  it's  a  beautiful  story ! "  said  Lois  suddenly 
looking  up. 

"  If  you  like  horrors,"  said  the  lady  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "  But  I  believe  you  are  one  of  that 
kind  yourself,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Liking  horrors  ?  "  said  Lois  in  astonishment. 

"  No,  no,  of  course !  not  that.  But  I  mean,  you 
are  one  of  that  saint's  spiritual  relations.  Are  you 
not  ?  You  would  rather  be  shot  than  live  easy  ?  " 

Philip  bit  his  lip ;  but  Lois  answered  with  the 
most  delicious  simplicity, — 

u  If  living  easy  implied  living  unfaithful,  I  hope 
I  would  rather  be  shot."  Her  eyes  looked  as  she 
spoke  straight  and  quietly  into  those  of  her  visiter. 

"And  I  hope  I  would,"— added  Philip. 

"  You?"  said  his  sister,  turning  sharp  upon 
him.  "  Everybody  knows  you  would !  " 

"But  everybody  does  not  know  yet  that  I  am 
a  fellow-servant  of  that  Sebastian  of  long  ago;  and 
that  to  me  now,  faithful  and  unfaithful  mean  the 
same  that  they  meant  to  him.  Not  faithfulness  t(> 
man,  but  faithfulness  to  God — or  unfaithfulness/ 

"  Philip !— " 


666  NOBODY. 

"  And  as  faithfulness  is  a  word  of  large  compre 
hension,  it  takes  in  also  the  use  of  money,"  Mr. 
Dillwyn  went  on  smiling;  "  and  so,  Jessie,  I  think, 
you  see,  with  my  new  views  of  things,  that  five 
hundred  dollars  is  too  much  for  a  panel." 

"  Or  for  a  picture,  I  suppose ! "  said  Mrs.  Burrage 
with  dry  concentrated  expression. 

"Depends.  Decidedly  too  much  for  a  picture 
not  meant  to  be  looked  at? " 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  be  looked  at?  " 

"  People  will  not  look  much  at  what  they  can 
not  understand." 

"Why  shouldn't  they  understand  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  representation  of  giving  up  all  for  Christ, 
and  of  faithfulness  unto  death.  What  do  the 
crowds  who  fill "  your  second  drawing  room  know 
about  such  experience  ?  " 

Mrs.  Burrage  had  put  the  foregoing  questions 
dryly  and  shortly,  examining  her  brother  while  he 
spoke,  with  intent,  searching  eyes.  She  had  risen 
once,  as  if  to  go,  and  now  sat  down  again.  Lois 
thought  she  even  turned  pale. 

"  Philip ! — I  never  heard  you  talk  so  before. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Merely  to  let  you  know  that  I  am  a  Christian. 
It  is  time." 

"  You  were  always  a  Christian  !  " 

"  In  name.     Now  it  is  reality." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you — you! — have  become 
one  of  those  fanatics  ?  " 

"What  fanatics?" 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  667 

"  Those  people  who  give  up  everything  for  relig 
ion,  and  are  insane  upon  the  subject.'' 

"You  could  not  have  described  it  better,  than  in 
the  first  half  of  your  speech.  I  have  given  up 
everything  for  religion.  That  is,  I  have  given 
myself  and  all  I  have  to  Christ  and  his  service; 
and  whatever  I  do  henceforth,  I  do  only  in  that 
character  and  in  that  interest.  But  as  to  sanity, — " 
he  srniled  again, — "  I  think  I  was  never  sane  until 
now." 

Mrs.  Burrage  had  risen  for  the  second  time,  and 
her  brother  was  now  standing  opposite  to  her;  and 
if  she  had  been  proud  of  him  a  little  while  before, 
it  was  Lois's  turn  now.  The  calm,  clear  frankness 
and  nobleness  of  his  face  and  bearing  made  her 
heart  fairly  swell  with  its  gladness  and  admiration ; 
but  it  filled  the  other  woman's  heart  with  a  differ 
ent  feeling. 

"  And  this  is  you,  Philip  Dillwyn !  "  she  said  bit 
terly.  "And  I  know  you;  what  you  have  said  you 
will  stand  to.  Such  a  man  as  you !  lost  to  the 
world!" 

"Why  lost  to  the  world,  Mrs.  Burrage?"  said 
Lois  gently.  She  had  risen  too.  The  other  lady 
faced  her. 

"Without  more  knowledge  of  what  the  world  is, 
I  could  hardly  explain  ^to  you,"  she  said  with  cool 
rudeness;  the  sort  of  insolence  that  a  fine  lady  can 
use  upon  occasion  when  it  suits  her.  Philip's  face 
flushed,  but  he  would  not  make  the  rudeness  more 
palpable  by  seeming  to  notice  it. 


668  NOBODY. 

"  I  hope  it  is  the  other  way,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
been  an  idle  man  all  my  life  hitherto,  and  have 
done  nothing  except  for  myself.  Nobody  could  be 
of  less  use  to  the  world." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell.  I  shall  find  out.  I  am  going  to 
study  the  question." 

"  And  is  Miss  Lothrop  your  teacher  ?  " 

The  civil  sneer  was  too  apparent  again,  but  it 
did  not  call  up  a  flush  this  time.  Philip  was  too 
angry.  It  was  Lois  that  answered,  and  pleasantly,  — 

"  She  does  not  even  wish  to  be  that." 

"  Haven't  you  taught  him  already  ?  "  asked  the 
lady  with  prompt  inquisition. 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip. 

Lois  did  colour  now;  she  could  not  deny  the 
fact,  nor  even  declare  that  it  had  been  an  uninten 
tional  fact;  but  her  colour  was  very  pretty,  and  so 
was  the  sort  of  deprecating  way  in  which  she 
looked  at  her  future  sister-in-law.  Not  disarmed, 
Mrs.  Burrage  went  on. 

"  It  is  a  dangerous  office  to  take,  my  dear,  for 
we  women  never  can  keep  it.  We  may  think  we 
stand  on  an  eminence  of  wisdom  one  day;  and  the 
next  we  find  we  have  to  come  down  to  a  very 
lowly  place,  and  sit  at  somebody  else's  feet,  and 
receive  our  orders.  I  find  it  rather  hard  sometimes. 
Well  Philip, — will  you  go  on  with  the  lesson  I  sup 
pose  I  have  interrupted  ?  or  will  you  have  the  com 
plaisance  to  go  with  me  to  see  about  the  Murillo?" 

"I  will  certainly  stay." 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  669 

"  Kather  hard  upon  me,  after  promising  me  last 
night  you  would  go." 

"  I  made  no  such  promise." 

"Indeed  you  did,  begging  your  pardon.  Last 
night,  .when  you  came  home  with  the  horses, — I 
told  you  of  the  sale,  and  asked  you  if  you  would 
go  and  see  that  I  did  not  get  cheated." 

"I  have  no  recollection  of  it." 

"And  you  said  you  would  with  pleasure." 

"  That  is  no  longer  possible,  Jessie.  And  the 
sale  would  be  over  before  we  could  get  to  it,"  he 
added,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Shall  I  leave  you  here,  then  ? "  said  the  lady, 
with  a  mingling  of  disagreeable  feelings  which 
found  indescribable  expression. 

"  If  Miss  Lothrop  will  let  me  be  left.  You  for 
get,  it  depends  upon  her  permission." 

"  Miss  Lothrop,"  said  the  lady,  offering  her  hand 
to  Lois  with  formal  politeness,  "I  do  not  ask  you 
the  question,  for  my  brother  all  his  life  has  never 
been  refused  anything  he  chose  to  demand.  Par 
don  me  my  want  of  attention;  he  is  responsible 
for  it,  having  upset  all  my  ideas  with  his  strange 
announcements.  Good  bye  !  " 

Lois  courtseyed  silently.  In  all  this  dialogue, 
the  contrast  had  been  striking  between  the  two 
ladies;  for  the  advantage  of  manner  had  been  on 
the  side,  not  of  the  experienced  woman  of  the 
world,  but  of  the  younger  and  simpler  and  country- 
bred  little  Shampuashuh  woman.  It  comes  to  this; 
that  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  First  Corinthians 


670  NOBODY. 

gives  one  the  very  soul  and  essence  of  what  in 
the  world  is  called  good  breeding;  the  kernel  arid 
thing  itself;  while  what  is  for  the  most  part  known 
in  society  is  the  empty  shell,  simulating  and  coun 
terfeiting  it  only.  Therefore  he  in  whose  heart 
that  thirteenth  chapter  is  a  living  truth,  will  never 
be  ill-bred;  and  if  he  possesses  besides  a  sensitive 
and  refined  nature,  and  is  free  of  self  consciousness, 
and  has  some  common  sense  to  boot,  he  has  all 
the  make-up  of  the  veriest  high-breeding.  Nothing 
could  seem  more  unruffled,  because  nothing  could 
be  more  unruffled,  than  Lois  during  this  whole 
interview;  she  was  even  a  little  sorry  for  Mrs. 
Burrage,  knowing  that  the  lady  would  be  very 
sorry  herself  afterwards  for  what  she  had  done; 
and  Lois  meant  to  bury  it  in  perfect  oblivion.  So 
her  demeanour  was  free,  simple,  dignified,  most 
graceful;  and  Philip  was  penetrated  with  delight 
and  shame  at  once.  He  went  with  his  sister  to 
put  her  in  her  carriage,  which  was  done  with 
scarce  any  words  on  either  part ;  and  then  returned 
to  the  room  where  he  had  left  Lois.  She  was 
still  standing  beside  her  chair,  having  in  truth 
her  thoughts  too  busy  to  remember  to  sit  down. 
Philip's  action  was  to  come  straight  to  her  and 
fold  his  arms  round  her.  They  were  arms  of 
caressing  and  protection  at  once;  Lois  felt  both 
the  caressing  and  the  protecting  clasp,  as  some 
thing  her  life  had  never  known  before;  and  a  thrill 
went  through  her,  of  happiness  that  was  almost 
mingled  with  awe. 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  671 

"My  darling!—"  said  Philip— "will  you  hold 
me  responsible?  Will  you  charge  it  all  upon 
me? — and  let  me  make  it  good  as  best  I  can?" 

"  0  Philip,  there  is  nothing  to  charge ! "  said 
Lois,  lifting  her  flushed  face,  "fair  as  the  moon," 
to  meet  his  anxious  eyes.  "  Do  not  think  of  it 
again.  It  is  perfectly  natural,  from  her  point  of 
view.  You  know,  you  are  very  much  Somebody ; 
and  I — am  Nobody." 

The  remainder  of  the  interview  may  be  left 
unrepqrted. 

It  lasted  till  the  two  ladies  returned  from  the 
matinee.  Mrs.  Wishart  immediately  retained  Mr. 
Dillwyn  for  luncheon,  and  the  two  girls  went  up 
stairs  together. 

"  How  long  has  that  man  been  here  ? "  was 
Madge's  disrespectful  inquiry. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"What  did  he  come  for?" 

"  I  suppose — to  see  me." 

"  To  see  you !  Did  he  come  to  take  you  sleigh 
riding  again  ?  " 

"  He  said  nothing  about  sleigh  riding." 

"  The  snow  is  all  slush  down  in  the  city.  What 
did  he  want  to  see  you  for  then  ?  "  said  Madge, 
turning  round  upon  her  sister,  while  at  the  same 
time  she  was  endeavouring  to  extricate  her  head 
from  her  bonnet,  which  was  caught  upon  a  pin. 

"  He  had  something  to  say  to  me — "  Lois  an 
swered,  trembling  with  an  odd  sort  of  excitement. 

"What?— Lois,  not  that?"   cried  Madge,   stop- 


672  NOBODY. 

ping  with  her  bonnet  only  half  oft'  her  head.  But 
Lois  nodded ;  and  Madge  dropped  herself  into  the 
nearest  chair,  making  no  further  effort  as  regarded 
the  bonnet. 

"  Lois  ! —     What  did  you  say  to  him  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  say  to  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  two  or  three  things,  I  should  think, 
it  was  I,  I  should  think  so." 

"  There  can  be  but  one  answer  to  such  a  ques 
tion.  It  must  be  yes  or  no." 

"  I  am  sure  that's  two  to  choose  from.  Have 
you  gone  and  said  yes  to  that  man  ?  " 

'  Don't  you  like  him  ?  "  said  Lois  with  a  furtive 
smile,  glancing  up  at  her  sister  now  from  under 
lowered  eyelids. 

"  Like  him !  I  never  saw  the  man  yet,  that  I 
liked  as  well  as  my  liberty." 

"  Liberty !— " 

"  Yes.  Have  you  forgotten  already  what  that 
means  ?  0  Lois !  have  you  said  yes  to  that  man  ? 
Why  I  am  always  afraid  of  him,  every  time  I  see 
him." 

"  Afraid  of  him  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  get  over  it  after  he  has  been  in  the 
room  a  while ;  but  the  next  time  I  see  him  it  comes 
back.  0  Lois!  are  you  going  to  let  him  have  you?" 

"Madge,  you  are  talking  most  dreadful  non 
sense.  You  never  were  afraid  of  anybody  in  your 
life;  and  of  him  least  of  all." 

"  Fact,  though,"  said  Madge,  beginning  at  her 
b  miiet  again.  "  It's  the  way  his  head  is  set  on 


ANNOUNCEMENTS.  673 

his  shoulders,  I  suppose.  If  I  had  known  what 
was  happening,  while  I  was  listening  to  Mme. 
Cisco's  screeching !  " — 

"  You  couldn't  have  helped  it." 
"And  now,  now,  actually  you  belong  to  some 
body  else !    Lois,  when  are  you  going  to  be  married  ?  " 
"I  don't  know." 

"  Not  for  a  great  while  ?     Not  soon,  at  any  rate  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know.     Mr.  Dillwyn  wishes — " 
"  And  are  you  going  to  do  everything  he  wishes?  " 
"  As  far  as  I  can — "  said  Lois,  with  again  a  rosy 
smile  and  glance. 

"  There's  the  call  to  luncheon ! "  said  Madge. 
"  People  must  eat,  if  they're  ever  so  happy  or  ever 
so  unhappy.  It  is  one  of  the  disgusting  things 
about  human  nature.  I  just  wish  he  wasn't  going 
to  be  here.  Well — come  along !  " 

Madge  went  ahead  till  she  reached  the  drawing 
room  door;  there  she  suddenly  paused,  waved  her 
self  to  one  side,  and  let  Lois  go  in  before  her.  Lois 
was  promptly  wrapped  in  Mrs.  Wishart's  arms,  and 
had  to  endure  a  most  warm  and  heartfelt  embrac 
ing  and  congratulating.  The  lady  was  delighted. 
Meanwhile  Madge  found  herself  shaking  hands  with 
Philip. 

u  You  know  all  about  it  ?  "  he  said,  looking  hard 
at  her,  and  holding  her  hand  fast. 

"If  you  mean  what  Lois  has  told  me — " 
"Are  not  you  going  to  wish  me  joy  ?  " 
"There  is  no  occasion, — for  anybody  who  has 
got  Lois,"  said   Madge.     And  then   she   choked, 


674  NOBODY. 

pulled  her  hand  away,  and  broke  down.  And 
when  Lois  got  free  from  Mrs.  Wishart,  she  saw 
Madge  sitting  with  her  head  in  her  hands,  and 
Mr.  Dillwyn  bending  over  her.  Lois  came  swiftly 
behind  and  put  both  arms  softly  around  her  sister. 

"  It's  no  use ! "  said  Madge  sobbing  and  yet 
defiant.  "He  has  got  you,  and  I  haven't  got 
you  any  longer.  Let  me  alone — I  am  not  going 
to  be  a  fool,  but  to  be  asked  to  wish  him  joy  is 
too  much."  And  she  broke  away  and  ran  oif. 

Lois  could  have  followed  her  with  all  her  heart ; 
but  she  had  herself  habitually  under  better  control 
than  Madge,  and  knew  with  fine  instinct  what  was 
due  to  others.  Her  eyes  glistened';  nevertheless 
her  bearing  was  quiet  and  undisturbed*;  and  a  sec 
ond  time  to-day  Mr.  Dillwyn  was  charmed  with 
the  grace  of  her  manner.  I  must'  add  that  Madge 
presently  made  her  appearance  again,  and  was  soon 
as  gay  as  usual;  her  lucubrations  even  going  so 
far  before  the  end  of  luncheon  as  to  wonder  where 
Lois  would  hold  her  wedding.  Will  she  fetch  all 
the  folks  down  here?  thought  Madge.  Or  will 
everybody  go  to  Shampuashuh  ? 

With  the  decision  however  the  reader  need  not 
be  troubled. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

ON     THE     PASS. 

ONLY  one  incident  more  need  be  told.     It  is  the 
last  point  in  my  story. 

The  intermediate  days  and  months  must  be 
passed  over,  and  we  skip  the  interval  to  the  sum 
mer  and  June.  It  is  now  the  middle  of  June.  Mr. 
Dillwyn's  programme  had  been  successfully  carried 
out;  and  after  an  easy  and  most  festive  journey 
from  England,  through  France,  he  and  Lois  had 
come  by  gentle  stages  to  Switzerland.  A  festive 
journey,  yes;  but  the  expression  regards  the  men 
tal  progress  rather  than  the  apparent.  Mr.  Dillwyn, 
being  an  old  traveller,  took  things  with  the  calm 
habit  of  use  and  wont;  and  Lois,  new  as  all  was 
to  her,  made  no  more  fussy  demonstration  than  he 
did.  All  the  more  delicious  to  him,  and  satisfac 
tory,  were  the  sparkles  in  her  eyes  and  the  flushes 
on  her  cheeks,  which  constantly  witnessed  to  her 
pure  delight  or  interest  in  something.  All  the 
more  happily  he  felt  the  grasp  of  her  hand  some 
times  when  she  did  not  speak;  or  listened  to  the 

low  accents  of  rapture  when  she  saw  something 

(675) 


676  NOBODY. 

that  deserved  them ;  or  to  her  merry  soft  laugh  at 
something  that  touched  her  sense  of  fun.  For  he 
found  Lois  had  a  great  sense  of  fun.  She  was  al 
together  of  the  most  buoyant,  happy,  and  enjoy 
ing  nature  possible.  No  one  could  be  a  better 
traveller.  She  ignored  discomforts,  (truly  there 
had  not  been  much  in  that  line)  and  she  laughed 
at  disappointments;  and  travellers  must  meet  dis 
appointments  now  and  then.  So  Mr.'Dillwyn  had 
found  the  journey  giving  him  all  he  had  promised 
himself;  and  to  Lois  it  gave — well  Lois's  dreams 
had  never  promised  her  the  quarter. 

So  it  had  come  to  be  the  middle  of  June,  and 
they  were  in  Switzerland.  And  this  day,  the  six 
teenth,  found  them  in  a  little  wayside  inn  near  the 
top  of  a  pass,  snowed  up.  So  far  they  had  come, 
the  last  mile  or  two  through  a  heavy  storm ;  and 
then  the  snow  clouds  had  descended  so  low  and  so 
thick,  and  gave  forth  their  treasures  of  snow  flakes 
so  confusedly  and  incessantly,  that  going  on  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  They  were  sheltered  in  the 
little  inn ;  and  that  is  nearly  all  you  could  say  of 
it,  for  the  accommodations  were  of  the  smallest  and 
simplest.  Travellers  were  not  apt  to  stop  at  that 
little  hostelry  for  more  than  a  passing  refreshment ; 
and  even  so,  it  was  too  early  in  the  season  for 
many  travellers  to  be  expected.  So  there  were 
Philip  and  his  wife  now,  making  the  best  of  things. 
Mr.  Dillwyn  was  coaxing  the  little  fire  to  burn, 
which  had  been  hastily  made  on  their  arrival;  but 
Lois  sat  at  one  of  the  windows  looking  out,  and 


ON  THE  PASS.  677 

every  now  and  then  proclaiming  her  enjoyment  by 
the  tone  in  which  some  innocent  remark  came 
from  her  lips. 

"  It  is  raining  now,  Philip." 

"  What  do  you  see  in  the  rain  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever,  at  this  minute ;  but  a  little 
while  ago  there  was  a  kind  of  drawing  aside  of  the 
thick  curtain  of  falling  snow,  and  I  had  a  view 
of  some  terribly  grand  rocks,  and  one  glimpse  of  a 
most  wonderful  distance." 

"  Vague  distance  ?  "  said  Philip  laughing.  "  That 
sounds  like  looking  off  into  space." 

"Well  it  was.  Like  chaos,  and  order  struggling 
out  of  its  awful  beginnings." 

"Don't  unpractically  catch  cold,  while  you  are 
studying  natural  developement." 

"  I  am  perfectly  warm.  I  think  it  is  great  fun  to 
be  kept  here  over  night.  Such  a  nice  little  place 
as  it  is,  and  such  a  nice  little  hostess.  Do  you  no 
tice  how  neat  everything  is?  0  Philip! — here  is 
somebody  else  coming !  " 

"  Coming  to  the  inn  ?  " 

"Yes.  0  I'm  afraid  so.  Here's  one  of  these  original 
little  carriages  crawling  along,  and  it  has  stopped, 
and  the  people  are  getting  out.  Poor  storm-stayed 
people,  like  ourselves." 

"They  will  come  to  a  fire,  which  we  didn't,"  said 
Philip,  leaving  his  post  now  and  placing  himself  at 
the  back  of  Lois's  chair,  where  he  too  could  see 
what  was  going  on  in  front  of  the  house.  A  queer 
little  vehicle  had  certainly  stopped  there,  and  some- 


678  NOBODY. 

body  very  much  muffled  had  got  out,  and  was  now 
helping  a  second  person  to  alight,  which  second 
person  must  be  a  woman ;  and  she  was  followed  by 
another  woman,  who  alighted  with  less  difficulty 
and  less  attention  though  she  had  two  or  three 
things  to  carry. 

"  I  pity  women  who  travel  in  the  Alps  with  their 
maids !  "  said  Mr.  Dillwyn. 

"  Philip,  that  first  one,  the  gentleman,  had  a  little 
bit — just  a  little  bit — the  air  of  your  friend  Mr. 
Caruthers.  He  was  so  muffled  up,  one  could  not 
tell  what  he  was  like;  but  somehow  he  reminded 
me  of  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"  I  thought  Tom  was  your  friend?  " 

"Friend?  no.  He  was  an  acquaintance;  he  was 
never  my  friend,  I  think." 

"  Then  his  name  raises  no  tender  associations  in 
your  mind?  " 

*c  Why  no ! "  said  Lois  with  a  gay  little  laugh. 
"  No  indeed.  But  I  liked  him  very  well  at  one  time ; 
and — I  think — he  liked  me." 

"  Poor  Tom !  " 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  Lois  asked  merrily. 
"He  is  not  poor;  he  has  married  a  Dulcimer.  I 
never  can  hear  her  name  without  thinking  of  Neb 
uchadnezzar's  image!  He  has  forgotten  me  long 
ago." 

"  I  see  you  have  forgotten  him," — said  Dillwyn, 
bending  down  till  his  face  was  very  near  Lois's. 

"How  should  I  not?  But  I  did  like  him  at  one 
time,  quite  well.  I  suppose  I  was  flattered  by  his 


ON  THE  PASS.  679 

attentions,  which  I  think  were  rather  marked.  And 
you  know,  at  that  time  I  did  not  know  you." 

Lois's  voice  fell  a  little ;  the  last  sentence  being 
given  with  a  delicate,  sweet  reserve,  which  spoke 
much  more  than  effusion.  Philip's  answer  was  mute. 

"  Besides,"  said  Lois,  "  he  is  a  sort  of  man  that  I 
never  could  have  liked  beyond  a  certain  point. 
He  is  a  weak  character;  do  you  know  it,  Philip?  " 

"  I  know  it.  I  observe,  that  is  the  last  fault 
women  will  forgive  in  a  man." 

"Why  should  they?"  said  Lois.  "What  have 
you,  where  you  have  not  strength  ?  It  is  impossi 
ble  to  love  where  you  cannot  respect.  Or  if  you 
love,  it  is  a  poor,  contemptible  sort  of  love." 

Philip  laughed;  and  just  then  the  door  opened, 
and  the  hostess  of  the  inn  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
hold,  with  other  figures  looming  dimly  behind  her. 
She  came  in  apologizing.  More  storm-bound  trav 
ellers  had  arrived — there  was  no  other  room  with 
a  fire  ready — would  monsieur  and  madame  be  so 
gracious  and  allow  the  strangers  to  come  in  and  get 
warm  and  dry  by  their  fire?  Almost  before  she 
had  finished  her  speech  the  two  men  had  sprung 
towards  each  other,  and  "  Tom !  " — "  Philip  Dil- 
Iwyn  ! " — had  been  cried  in  different  tones  of  sur 
prised  greeting. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  said  Tom,  shaking 
his  friend's  hand.  "  What  a  chance !  Here  is  my 
wife.  Arabella,  this  is  Mr.  Dillwyn,  wThose  name 
you  have  heard  often  enough.  At  the  top  of  this 
pass ! — " 


680  NOBODY. 

The  lady  thus  addressed  came  in  behind  Tom, 
throwing  off  her  wrappings,  and  throwing  each,  or 
dropping  it  as  it  was  taken  off,  into  the  hands  of 
her  attendant  who  followed  her.  She  appeared  now 
to  be  a  slim  person,  of  medium  height,  dressed  very 
handsomely,  with  an  insignificant  face  and  a  quan 
tity  of  light  hair  disposed  in  a  mysterious  manner 
to  look  like  a  wig.  That  is,  it  looked  like  nothing 
natural,  and  yet  could  not  be  resolved  by  the  cur 
ious  eye  into  bands  or  braids  or  any  defined  form 
of  fashionable  art  or  artifice.  The  face  looked  fretted, 
and  returned  Mr.  Dillwyn's  salutation  discontent 
edly.  Tom's  eye  meanwhile  had  wandered,  with 
an  unmistakeable  air  of  apprehension,  towards  the 
fourth  member  of  the  party ;  and  Lois  came  forward 
now,  giving  him  a  frank  greeting  and  holding  out  her 
hand.  Tom  bowed  very  low  over  it,  without  say 
ing  one  word ;  and  Philip  noted  that  his  eye  shunned 
Lois's  face,  and  that  his  own  face  was  all  shadowed 
when  he  raised  it.  Mr.  Dillwyn  put  himself  in 
between. 

"  May  I  present  my  wife,  Mrs.  Caruthers  ?  " 

Mrs.  Caruthers  gave  Lois  a  look,  swift  and 
dissatisfied,  and  turned  to  the  fire  shivering. 

"  Have  we  got  to  stay  here  ?  "  she  asked  quer 
ulously. 

"  We   couldn't  go   on,    you  know,"   said  Tom. 
"  We  may  be  glad  of  any  sort  of  a  shelter.     I  am 
afraid  we  are  interfering  with  your  comfort,  Philip 
but  really,  we  couldn't  help  it.     The  storm's  awful 
outside.     Mrs.  Caruthers  was  sure   we  should  be 


ON  THE  PASS.  681 

overtaken  by  an  avalanche;  and  then  she  was 
certain  there  must  be  a  crevasse  somewhere.  I 
wonder  if  one  can  get  anything  to  eat  in  this 
place  ?  " 

"Make  yourself  easy;  they  have  promised  us 
dinner,  and  you  shall  share  with  us.  What  the 
dinner  will  be,  I  cannot  say;  but  we  shall  not 
starve;  and  you  see  what  a  fire  I  have  coaxed 
up  for  you.  Take  this  chair,  Mrs.  Caruthers." 

The  lady  sat  down  and  hovered  over  the  fire; 
and  Tom  restlessly  bustled  in  and  out.  Mr.  Dil- 
Iwyn  tended  the  fire,  and  Lois  kept  a  little  in  the 
background.  Till  after  an  uncomfortable  interval 
the  hostess  came  in,  bringing  the  very  simple  fare 
which  was  all  she  had  to  set  before  them.  Brown 
bread,  and  cheese,  and  coffee,  and  a  common  sort 
of  red  wine;  with  a  bit  of  cold  salted  meat,  the 
precise  antecedents  of  which  it  was  not  so  easy 
to  divine.  The  lady  by  the  fire  looked  on  dis 
dainfully,  and  Tom  hastened  to  supplement  things 
from  their  own  stores.  Cold  game,  white  bread, 
and  better  wine  were  produced  from  somewhere, 
with  hard  boiled  eggs  and  even  some  fruit.  Mrs. 
Caruthers  sat  by  the  fire  and  looked  on;  while 
Tom  brought  these  articles,  one  after  another, 
and  Lois  arranged  the  table.  Philip  watched  her 
covertly ;  admired  her,  lithe  figure  in  its  neat  moun 
tain  dress,  which  he  thought  became  her  charm 
ingly  ;  admired  the  quiet,  delicate  tact  of  her  whole 
manner  and  bearing;  the  grace  with  which  she 
acted  and  spoke,  as  well  as  the  pretty  deftness  of 


682  NOBODY. 

her  ministrations  about  the  table.  She  was  taking 
the  part  of  hostess,  and  doing  it  with  simple  dignity ; 
and  he  was  very  sorry  for  Tom.  Tom,  he  observed, 
would  not  see  her  when  he  could  help  it.  But 
they  had  to  all  gather  round  the  table  together 
and  face  each  other  generally. 

"This  is  improper  luxury  for  the  mountains," 
Dillvvyn  said. 

"Mrs.  Caruthers  thinks  it  best  to  be  always 
provided  for  occasions.  These  small  houses,  you 
know,  they  can't  give  you  any  but  small  fare." 

"  Small  fare  is  good  for  you  ! — " 

" Good  for  you''  said  Tom, — "all  right;  but  my 
— Arabella  cannot  eat  things  if  they  are  too  small. 
That  cheese,  now ! — " 

"  It  is  quite  passable." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Philip?" 

"  Bound  for  the  JEggischhorn,  in  the  first  place." 

"  You  are  never  going  up  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  Lois  asked  with  her  bright  smile. 
Tom  glanced  at  her  from  under  his  brows  and 
grew  as  dark  as  a  thundercloud.  She  was  minis 
tering  to  Tom's  wife,  in  the  prettiest  way;  not 
assuming  anything,  and  yet  acting  in  a  certain 
sort  as  mistress  of  ceremonies.  And  Mrs.  Caru 
thers  was  coming  out  of  her  apathy  every  now  and 
then,  arid  looking  at  her  in  a  curious  attentive 
way.  I  dare  say  it  struck  Tom  hard.  For  he 
could  not  but  see,  that  to  all  her  natural  sweetness 
Lois  had  added  now  a  full  measure  of  the  ease 
and  grace  which  come  from  the  habit  of  society, 


ON  THE  PASS.  683 

and  which  Lois  herself  had  once  admired  in  the 
ladies  of  his  family.  "  Ay,  even  they  wouldn't 
say  she  was  nobody  now  I "  he  said  to  himself 
bitterly.  And  Philip,  he  saw,  was  so  accustomed 
to  this  fact,  that  he  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Where  are  you  going  after  the  ^Eggischhorn  ?  " 
he  went  on,  to  say  something. 

"We  mean  to  work  our  way,  by  degrees,  to 
Zermatt." 

"  We  are  going  to  Zermatt,"  Mrs.  Caruthers  put 
in  blandly.  "  We  might  travel  in  company." 

"  Can  you  walk  ?  "  asked  Philip  smiling. 

"Walk!" 

"  Yes.     We  do  it  on  foot." 

"What  for?  Pray,  pardon  me!  But  are  you 
serious  ?  "  • 

,  "  I  am  in  earnest,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  We 
do  not  look  upon  it  in  a  serious  light.  It's  rather 
a  jollification." 

"It  is  far  the  pleasantest  way,  Mrs.  Caruthers," 
Lois  added. 

"  But  do  you  travel  without  any  baggage  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Lois  demurely.  u  We  generally 
send  that  on  ahead,  except  what  will  go  in  small 
satchels  slung  over  the  shoulder." 

"  And  take  what  you  can  find  at  the  little  inns  ?  " 

"0  yes;  and  fare  very  well." 

"  I  like  to  be  comfortable ! "  sighed  the  other 
lady.  "  Try  that  wine,  and  see  how  much  better  it 
is." 

"Thank  you,  no;  I  prefer  the  coffee." 


684  NOBODY. 

"  No  use  to  ask  Tier  to  take  wine,"  growled  Tom. 
"  I  know  she  won't.  She  never  would.  She  has 
principles.  Offer  it  to  Mr.  Dillwyn." 

"  You  do  me  the  honour  to  suppose  me  without 
principles,"  said  Philip  dryly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  hold  her  principles,"  said 
Tom,  indicating  Lois  rather  awkwardly  by  the  pro 
noun  rather  than  in  any  more  definite  way.  "You 
never  used." 

"Quite  true;  I  never  used.     But  I  do  it  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  given  up  drinking 
wine  ?  " 

"I  have  given  it  up — "  said  Philip,  smiling  at 
Tom's  air,  which  was  almost  of  consternation. 

"  Because  she  don't  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  would  give  up  a  greater  thing  than 
that,  if  she  did  not  like  it,"  said  Philip  gravely. 
"This  seems  to  me  not  a  great  thing.  But  the  rea 
son  you  suppose  is  not  my  reason." 

"If  the  reason  isn't  a  secret,  I  wish  you'd  men 
tion  it;  Mrs.  Caruthers  will  be  asking  me  in  pri 
vate,  by  and  by ;  arid  I  do  not  like  her  to  ask  me 
questions  I  cannot  answer." 

"  My  reason  is, — I  think  it  does  more  harm  than 
good." 

44  Wine?" 

"Wine,  and  its  congeners." 

"Take  a  cup  of  coffee,  Mr.  Caruthers,"  said 
Lois;  "and  confess  it  will  do  instead  of  the  other 
thing." 

Tom  accepted  the  coffee;  I  don't  think  he  could 


ON  THE  PASS.  685 

have  rejected  anything  she  held  out  to  him ;  but  he 
remarked  grumly,  to  Philip,  as  he  took  it, — 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  where  you  got  your  principles ! " 

"  Less  easy  than  you  think,"  Philip  answered.  "  I 
got  them  from  no  living  man  or  woman,  though  I 
grant  you,  Lois  shewed  me  the  way  to  them.  I  got 
them  from  the  Bible,  old  friend." 

Tom  glared  at  the  speaker. 

u  Have  you  given  up  your  cigars  too  ?  " 

Mr.  Dillwyn  laughed  out,  and  Lois  said  some 
what  exultantly, 

"Yes,  Mr.  Caruthers." 

"  I  am  sure,  I  wish  you  would  too  !  "  said  Tom's 
wife  deploringly  to  her  husband.  "  I  think  if  any- 
thing's  horrid,  it's  the  after  smell  of  tobacco." 

"Bat  theftrst  taste  of  it  is  all  the  comfort  a  fel 
low  gets  in  this  world," — said  Tom. 

"No  fellow  ought  to  say  that,"  his  friend  re 
turned. 

"  The  Bible !  "  Tom  repeated,  as  if  it  were  a  hard 
pill  to  swallow.  "  Philip  Dillwyn  quoting  that  old 
authority ! " 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  go  a  little  further,  and  say, 
Tom,  that  my  quoting  it  is  not  a  matter  of  form. 
I  have  taken  service  in  the  Christian  army,  since  I 
saw  you  the  last  time.  Now  tell  me  how  you  and 
Mrs.  Caruthers  come  to  be  at  the  top  of  this  pass  in 
a  snow  storm  on  the  sixteenth  of  June  ?  " 

"  Fate !  "  said  Tom. 

"  We  did  not  expect  to  have  a  snow  storm,  Mr. 
Dillwyn,"  Mrs.  Caruthers  added. 


686  NOBODY. 

"  But  you  might,"  said  Philip.  "There  have  been 
snow  storms  everywhere  in  Switzerland  this  year." 

"  Well,"  said  Torn,  "  we  did  not  come  for  pleas 
ure  anyhow.  Never  should  dream  of  it,  until  a 
month  later.  But  Mrs.  Caruthers  got  word  that  a 
special  friend  of  hers  would  be  at  Zermatt  by  a  cer 
tain  day,  and  begged  to  meet  her ;  and  stay  was 
uncertain;  and  so  we  took  what  was  said  to  be  the 
shortest  way  from  where  the  letter  found  us.  And 
here  we  are." 

"How  is  the  coffee,  Mr.  Caruthers?"  Lois  asked 
pleasantly.  Tom  looked  into  the  depths  of  his  coffee 
cup,  as  if  it  were  an  abstraction,  and  then  answered, 
that  it  was  the  best  coffee  he  had  ever  had  in  Switz 
erland;  and  upon  that  he  turned  determinately  to 
Mr.  Dillwyn  and  began  to  talk  of  other  things, 
unconnected  with  Switzerland  or  the  present  time. 
Lois  was  fain  to  entertain  Tom's  wife.  The  two 
women  had  little  in  common;  nevertheless  Mrs. 
Caruthers  gradually  warmed  under  the  influence 
that  shone  upon  her;  thawed  out,  and  began  even 
to  enjoy  herself.  Tom  saw  it  all,  without  once  turn 
ing  his  face  that  way;  and  he  was  fool  enough  to 
fancy  that  he  was  the  only  one.  But  Philip  saw 
it  too,  as  it  were  without  looking;  and  delighted 
himself  all  the  while  in  the  gracious  SAveetness, 
and  the  tender  tact,  and  the  simple  dignity  of  un 
consciousness,  with  which  Lois  attended  to  every 
body,  ministered  to  everybody,  and  finally  smoothed 
down  even  poor  Mrs.  Caruthers'  ruffled  plumes  un 
der  her  sympathizing  and  kindly  touch. 


ON  THE  PASS.  687 

"How  soon  will  you  be  at  Zermatt?"  the  latter 
asked.  "  I  wish  we  could  travel  together !  When 
do  you  expect  to  get  there  ?  " 

"0  I  do  not  know.  We  are  going  first,  you 
kno^y,  to  the  JEggischhorn.  We  go  where  we 
like,  and  stay  as  long  as  we  like;  and  we  never 
know  beforehand  how  it  will  be." 

"  But  so  early !— " 

"  Mr.  Dillwyn  wanted  me  to  see  the  flowers.  And 
the  snow  views  are  grand,  too;  I  am  very  glad 
not  to  miss  them.  Just  before  you  came,  I  had 
one.  The  clouds  swept  apart,  for  a  moment,  and 
gave  me  a  wonderful  sight  of  a  gorge,  the  wildest 
possible,  and  tremendous  rocks,  half  revealed,  and 
a  chaos  of  cloud  and  storm." 

"Do  you  like  that?" 

"  I  like  it  all,"  said  Lois  smiling.  And  the  other 
woman  looked,  with  a  fascinated,  uncomprehend 
ing  air,  at  the  beauty  of  that  smile. 

" But  why  do  you  walk?  " 

"0  that's  half  the  fun,"  cried  Lois.  "We  gain 
so  a  whole  world  of  things  that  other  people  miss. 
And  the  walking  itself  is  delightful." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  walk?"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers 
enviously.  "  How  far  can  you  go  in  a  day  ?  You 
must  make  very  slow  progress  ?  " 

"Not  very.  Now  J  am  getting  in  training,  we 
can  do  twenty  or  thirty  miles  a  day  with  ease." 

"  Twenty  or  thirty  miles ! "  Mrs.  Caruthers  as 
nearly  screamed  as  politeness  would  let  her  do. 

"  We  do  it  easily,  beginning  the  day  early." 


688  NOBODY. 

"  How  early  ?     What  do  you  call  early  ?  " 

"About  four  or  five  o'clock." 

Mrs.  Caruthers  looked  now  as  if  she  were  star 
ing  at  a  prodigy. 

"  Start  at  four  o'clock !  Where  do  you  get  break 
fast?  Don't  you  have  breakfast  ?  Will  the  people 
give  you  breakfast  so  early  ?  Why  they  would  have 
to  be  up  by  two." 

Tom  was  listening  now.  He  could  not  help 
it. 

"  O  we  have  breakfast,"  Lois  said.  "  We  carry 
it  with  us,  and  we  stop  at  some  nice  place  and 
take  rest  on  the  rocks,  or  on  a  soft  carpet 
of  moss,  when  we  have  walked  an  hour  or 
two.  Mr.  Dillwyn  carries  our  breakfast  in  a  little 
knapsack." 

"Is  it  nice?"  enquired  the  lady,  with  such  an 
expression  of  doubt  and  scruple  that  the  risible 
nerves  of  the  others  could  not  stand  it,  and  there 
was  a  general  burst  of  laughter. 

"  Come  and  try  once,"  said  Lois,  "  and  you  will 
see." 

"  If  you  do  not  like  such  fare,"  Philip  went  on, 
"  you  can  almost  always  stop  at  a  house  and  get 
breakfast." 

"I  could  not  eat  dry  food,"  said  the  lady; 
"and  you  do  not  drink,  wine.  What  do  you 
drink?  Water?" 

"  Sometimes.  Generally  we  manage  to  get  milk. 
It  is  fresh  and  excellent." 

"  And  without  cups  and  saucers  ?  "  said  the  as- 


ON  THE  PASS.  689 

tonished  lady.  Lois's  "ripple  of  laughter"  sounded 
again  softly. 

"Not  quite  without  cups;  I 'am  afraid  we  really 
do  without  saucers.  We  have  an  unlimited  table 
cloth,  you  know,  of  lichen  and  moss." 

"  And  you  really  enjoy  it  ?  " 

But  here  Lois  shook  her  head.  "  There  are  no 
words  to  tell  how  much." 

Mrs.  Caruthers  sighed.  If  she  had  spoken  out 
her  thoughts,  it  was  too  plain  to  Lois,  she  would 
have  said,  "  I  do  not  enjoy  anything." 

"How  long  are  you  thinking  to  stay  on  this 
side  of  the  water  ?  "  Tom  asked  his  friend  now. 

"Several  months  yet,  I  hope.  I  want  to  push 
on  into  Tyrol.  We  are  not  in  a  hurry.  The  old 
house  at  home  is  getting  put  into  order,  and  till 
it  is  ready  for  habitation  we  can  be  nowhere  better 
than  here." 

"  The  old  house  ?  your  house,  do  you  mean  ?  the 
old  house  at  Battersby  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  not  going  there  ?  for  the  winter  at 
least?" 

"  Yes,  we  propose  that.     Why  ?  " 

"  It  is  I  that  should  ask  '  why.'  What  on  earth 
should  you  go  to  live  there  for  ?  " 

"It  is  a  nice  country,  a  very  good  house,  and 
a  place  I  am  fond  of  and  I  think  Lois  will  like." 

"  But  out  of.  the  world !  " 

"  Only  out  of  your  world,"  his  friend  returned 
with  a  smile. 


690  NOBODY. 

"Why  should  you  go  out  of  our  world?  it  is 
the  world." 

"  For  what  good  properties?  " 

"And  it  has  always  been  your  world,"  Tom 
went  on,  disregarding  this  question. 

"  I  told  you,  I  am  changed." 

"  But  does  becoming  a  Christian  change  a  man, 
Mr.  Dillwyn  ?  "  Mrs.  Caruthers  asked. 

"So  the  Bible  says." 

"I  never  saw  much  difference.  I  thought  we 
were  all  Christians." 

"  If  you  were  to  live  awhile  in  the  house  with 
that  lady,"  said  Tom  darkly,  "yo\i'd  find  your  mis 
take.  What  in  all  the  world  do  you  expect  to  do 
up  there  at  Battersby  ?  "  he  went  on,  turning  to  his 
friend. 

"Live," — said  Philip.  "In  your  world  you  only 
drag  along  existence.  And  we  expect  to  work, 
which  you  never  do.  There  is  no  real  living  with 
out  working,  man.  Try  it,  Tom." 

"  Cannot  you  work,  as  you  call  it,  in  town  ?  " 

"  We  want  more  free  play,  and  more  time,  than 
town  life  allows  one." 

"Besides,  the  country  is  so  much  pleasanter," 
Lois  added. 

"  But  such  a  neighbourhood  !  you  don't  know  the 
neighbourhood — but  you  do,  Philip.  You  have  no 
society,  and  Battersby  is  nothing  but  a  manufac 
turing  place — " 

"  Battersby  is  three  and  a  half  miles  off;  too  far 
for  its  noise  or  its  smoke  to  reach  us;  and  we  can 


ON  THE  PASS.  691 

get  society,  as  much  as  we  want,  and  what  we 
want;  and  in  such  a  place  there  is  always  a  great 
deal  that  might  be  done." 

The  talk  went  on  for  some  time;  Mrs.  Caruthers 
seeming  amazed  and  mystified,  Tom  dissatisfied 
and  critical.  At  last,  being  informed  that  their 
own  quarters  were  ready,  the  later  comers  with 
drew,  after  agreeing  that  they  would  all  sup  to 
gether. 

"Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Caruthers  presently,  "whom 
did  Mr.  Dillwyn  marry  ?  " 

"  Whom  did  he  marry  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Who  was  she  before  she  married  ?  " 

"  I  always  heard  she  was  nobody — "  Tom  an 
swered  with  something  between  a  grunt  and  a 
groan. 

"  Nobody  !  But  that's  nonsense.  I  haven't  seen 
a  woman  with  more  style  in  a  great  while." 

"  Style  !  "  echoed  Tom,  and  his  word  would  have 
had  a  sharp  addition  if  he  had  not  been  speaking 
to  his  wife;  but  Tom  was  before  all  things  a  gen 
tleman.  As  it  was,  his  tone  would  have  done 
honour  to  a  grisly  bear  somewhat  out  of  temper. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Mrs.  Caruthers.  "You  may  not 
know  it,  Tom,  being  a  man ;  but  I  know  what  I 
am  saying;  and  I  tell  you  Mrs.  Dillwyn  has  very 
distinguished  manners.  I  hope  we  may  see  a  good 
deal  of  them." 

Meanwhile  Lois  was  standing  still  where  they 
had  left  her,  in  front  of  the  fire;  looking  down 
meditatively  into  it.  Her  face  was  grave,  and  her 


692  NOBODY. 

abstraction  for  some  minutes  deep.  T  suppose  her 
New  England  reserve  was  struggling  with  her  in 
dividual  frankness  of  nature,  for  she  said  no  word, 
and  Mr.  Dillwyn,  who  was  watching  her,  also 
stood  silent.  At  last  frankness,  or  affection,  got 
the  better  of  reserve;  and  with  a  slow,  gentle  mo 
tion  she  turned  to  him,  laying  one  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  sinking  her  face  upon  his  breast. 

lt  Lois ! — what  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  folding  his  arms 
about  her. 

"  Philip,  it  smites  me  !  "— 

.  "  What,  my  darling  ? "  he  said,  almost  startled. 
And  then  she  lifted  up  her  face  and  looked  at  him. 

"  To  know  myself  so  happy,  and  to  see  them  so 
unhappy.  Philip,  they  are  not  happy, — neither 
one  of  them  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  true.  And  we  can  do  nothing 
to  help  them." 

"  No,  I  see  that  too." 

Lois  said  it  with  a  sigh,  and  was  silent  again. 
Philip  did  not  choose  to  push  the  subject  further, 
uncertain  how  far  her  perceptions  went,  and  not 
wishing  to  give  them  any  assistance.  Lois  stood 
silent  and  pondering,  still  within  his  arms,  and  he 
waited  and  watched  her.  At  last  she  began  again. 

"  We  cannot  do  them  any  good.  But  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  like  to  spend  my  life  in  making  people 
happy?" 

"  How  many  people !  "  said  her  husband  fondly, 
with  a  kiss  or  two  which  explained  his  meaning. 
Lois  laughed  out. 


ON  THE  PASS.  693 

"  Philip,  /  do  not  make  you  happy.' 

"You  come  very  near  it." 

"  But  I  mean —  Your  happiness  has  something 
better  to  rest  on.  I  should  like  to  spend  my  life 
bringing  happiness  to  the  people  who  know  noth 
ing  about  being  happy." 

"  Do  it,  sweetheart ! "  said  he,  straining  her  a 
little  closer.  "  And  let  me  help." 

"  Let  you  help  ! — when  you  would  have  to  do 
almost  the  whole.  But  to  be  sure,  money  is  not 
all;  and  money  alone  will  not  do  it,  in  most  cases. 
Philip,  I  will  tell  you  where  I  should  like  to  begin." 

"  Where  ?     I  will  begin  there  also." 

"  With  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"Mrs.  Barclay! — "  There  came  a  sudden  light 
into  Philip's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,  she  is  not  a  happy  woman  ?  " 

"  I  know  it." 

"And  she  seems  very  much  alone  in  the  world." 

"  She  is  alone  in  the  world." 

"And  she  has  been  so  good  to  us!  She  has 
done  a  great  deal  for  Madge  and  me." 

"  She  has  done  as  much  for  me." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  do  not  see  how 
she  could.  In  a  way,  I  owe  her  almost  everything. 
Philip,  you  would  never  have  married  the  woman 
I  was  three  years  ago." 

"Don't  take  your  oath  upon  that,"  he  said 
lightly. 

"But  you  would  not,  and  you  ought  not." 

"There  is  a  counterpart  to  that.     I  am  sure  you 


694  NOBODY. 

would  not  have  married  the  man  I  was  three  years 
ago." 

At  that  Lois  laid  down  her  face 'again  for  a  mo 
ment  on  his  breast. 

"  I  had  a  pretty  hard  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a 
sleigh  with  you  once ! — "  she  said. 

Philip's  answer  was  again  wordless. 

"  But  about  Mrs.  Barclay  ? — "  said  Lois,  recover 
ing  herself.  i 

"  Are  you  one  of  the  few  women  who  can  keep 
to  the  point  ?  "  said  he  laughing. 

"  What  can  we  do  for  her  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  for  her  ?  " 

"  Oh—     Make  her  happy  !  " 

"And  to  that  end—?" 

Lois  lifted  her  face  and  looked  into  Mr.  Dillwyn's 
as  if  she  would  search  out  something  there.  The 
frank  nobleness  which  belonged  to  it  was  encour 
aging,  and  yet  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Shall  we  ask  her  to  make  her  home  with  us  ?  " 

"  0  Philip  !  "  said  Lois,  with  her  face  all  illumi 
nated, — "  would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  owe  her  much  more  than  you  do.  And  Love, 
I  like  what  you  like." 

"Would  she  come?" 

"If  she  could  resist  you  and  me  together,  she 
would  be  harder  than  I  think  her." 

"  I  love  her  very  much,"  said  Lois  thoughtfully, 
"  and  I  think  she  loves  me.  And  if  she  will  come 
— I  am  almost  sure  we  can  make  her  happy." 

u  We  will  try,  darling." 


ON  THE  PASS.  695 

"And  these  other  people — we   need  not   meet 
them  at  Zermatt,  need  we  ?  " 

"  We  will  find  it  not  convenient." 


Neither  at  Zermatt  nor  anywhere  else  in  Switz 
erland  did  the  friends  again  join  company.  After 
wards,  when  both  parties  had  returned  to  their 
own  country,  it  was  impossible  but  that  encounters 
should  now  and  then  take  place.  But  whenever 
and  wherever  they  happened,  Tom  made  them  as 
short  as  his  wife  would  let  him.  And  as  long  as 
he  lives,  he  will  never  see  Mrs.  Philip  Dillwyn 
without  a  clouding  of  his  face  and  a  very  evident 
discomposure  of  his  gay  and  not  specially  profound 
nature.  It  has  tenacity  somewhere,  and  has  re 
ceived  at  least  one  thing  which  it  will  never  lose. 


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